WOUNDE 
-  SOULS  - 

PHILI  P    GIBBS 


WOUNDED     SOULS 

PHILIP    GIBBS 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS 


BY    PHILIP     GIBBS 

WOUNDED  SOULS 
THE  STREET  OF  ADVENTURE 
THE  INDIVIDUALIST 
HELEN  OF  LANCASTER  GATE 
A  MASTER  OF  LIFE 
THE  WAY  TO  VICTORY,    a  Volt. 
THE  STRUGGLE  IN  FLANDERS 
THE  BATTLES  OF  THE  SOMME 
THE  SOUL  OF  THE  WAR 
ETC.,  ETC. 


WOUNDED    SOULS 


BY 

PHILIP    GIBBS 

AUTHOR   CF   "THE    STREET    OF   ADVENTURE," 
"THE    INDIVIDUALIST,"    ETC. 


NEW  xar  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  GEOEGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 

PAGE 

THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  ......         9 

BOOK  TWO 
THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES      .......     143 

BOOK  THREE 
BUILDERS  OP  PEACE %     ...     241 


2129835 


BOOK  ONE:  THE  END  OF  THE 
ADVENTURE 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

BOOK  ONE:  THE  END  OF  THE 
ADVENTURE 


T  T  is  hard  to  recapture  the  spirit  of  that  day  we  entered 
•*•  Lille.  Other  things,  since,  have  blurred  its  fine 
images.  At  the  time,  I  tried  to  put  down  in  words  the 
picture  of  that  scene  when,  after  four  years'  slaughter 
of  men,  the  city,  which  had  seemed  a  world  away,  was 
open  to  us  a  few  miles  beyond  the  trenchlines,  the  riven 
trees,  the  shell-holes,  and  the  stench  of  death,  and  we 
walked  across  the  canal,  over  a  broken  bridge,  into  that 
large  town  where — how  wonderful  it  seemed! — there 
were  rpofs  on  the  houses,  and  glass  in  the  windows  and 
crowds  of  civilian  people  waiting  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
British  khaki. 

Even  now  remembrance  brings  back  to  me  figures  that 
I  saw  only  for  a  moment  or  two  but  remain  sharply 
etched  in  my  mind,  and  people  I  met  in  the  streets  who 
told  me  the  story  of  four  years  in  less  than  four  minutes 
and  enough  to  let  me  know  their  bitterness,  hatred, 
humiliations,  terrors,  in  the  time  of  the  German  occupa- 
tion. ...  I  have  re-read  the  words  I  wrote,  hastily,  on 
a  truculent  typewriter  which  I  cursed  for  its  twisted  rib- 
bon, while  the  vision  of  the  day  was  in  my  eyes.  They 

9 


10  WOUNDED  SOULS 

are  true  to  the  facts  and  to  what  we  felt  about  them.  Other 
men  felt  that  sense  of  exaltation,  a  kind  of  mystical  union 
with  the  spirit  of  many  people  who  had  been  delivered 
from  evil  powers.  It  is  of  those  other  men  that  I  am 
now  writing,  and  especially  of  one  who  was  my  friend — • 
Wickham  Brand,  with  the  troubled  soul,  whom  I  knew  in 
the  years  of  war  and  afterwards  in  the  peace  which  wa3 
no  peace  to  him. 

His  was  one  of  the  faces  I  remember  that  day,  as  I 
had  a  glimpse  of  it  now  and  then,  among  crowds  of  men 
and  women,  young  girls  and  children,  who  surged  about 
him,  kissing  his  hands,  and  his  face  when  he  stooped  a  lit- 
tle (he  was  taller  than  most  of  them)  to  meet  the  wet 
lips  of  some  half -starved  baby  held  up  by  a  pallid  woman 
of  Lille,  or  to  receive  the  kiss  of  some  old  woman  who 
clawed  his  khaki  tunic,  or  of  some  girl  who  hung  on  to 
his  belt.  There  was  a  shining  wetness  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
hard  lines  of  his  face  had  softened  as  he  laughed  at  all 
this  turmoil  about  him,  at  all  these  hands  robbing  him 
of  shoulder-straps  and  badges,  and  at  all  these  people  tell- 
ing him  a  hundred  things  together — their  gratitude  to 
the  English,  their  hatred  of  the  Germans,  their  abomin- 
able memories.  His  field-cap  was  pushed  back  from  his 
high  furrowed  forehead  from  which  at  the  temples  the 
hair  had  worn  thin,  owing  to  worry  or  a  steel  hat.  His  long 
lean  face  deeply  tanned,  but  powdered  with  white  dust, 
had  an  expression  of  tenderness  which  gave  him  a  kind 
of  priestly  look,  though  others  would  have  said  "knight- 
ly" with  perhaps  equal  truth.  Anyhow  I  could  see  that 
for  a  little  while  Brand  was  no  longer  worrying  about 
the  casualty-lists  and  the  doom  of  youth  and  was  giving 
himself  up  to  an  exultation  that  was  visible  and  spiritual 
in  Lille  in  the  day  of  liberation. 

The  few  of  us  who  went  first  into  Lille  while  our  troops 
were  in  a  wide  arc  round  the  city,  in  touch  more  or  less 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTU&E  1* 

with  the  German  rearguards,  were  quickly  separated  in 
the  swirl  of  the  crowd  that  surged  about  us,  greeting  us 
as  conquering  heroes,  though  none  of  us  were  actual 
fighting-men,  being  war-correspondents,  Intelligence  of- 
ficers (Wickham  Brand  and  three  other  officers  were 
there  to  establish  an  advanced  headquarters),  with  an 
American  doctor — that  amazing  fellow  "Daddy"  Small 
— and  our  French  liaison  officer,  Pierre  Nesle.  Now  and 
again  we  met  in  the  streets  and  exchanged  words. 

I  remember  the  Doctor  and  I  drifted  together  at  the 
end  of  the  Boulevard  de  la  Liberte.  A  French  girl  of 
the  middle-class  had  tucked  her  hand  through  his  right 
arm  and  was  talking  to  him  excitedly,  volubly.  On  his 
other  arm  leaned  an  old  dame  in  a  black  dress  and  bonnet 
who  was  also  delivering  her  soul  of  its  pent-up  emotion  to 
a  man  who  did  not  understand  more  than  a  few  words 
of  her  French.  A  small  boy  dressed  as  a  Zouave  was 
walking  backwards,  waving  a  long  tricolour  flag  before 
the  little  American,  and  a  crowd  of  people  made  a  close 
circle  about  him,  keeping  pace. 

"Assassins,  bandits,  robbers !"  gobbled  the  old  woman. 
"They  stole  all  our  copper,  monsieur.  The  very  mat- 
tresses off  our  beds.  The  wine  out  of  our  cellars.  They 
did  abominations." 

"Month  after  month  we  waited,"  said  the  girl  with  her 
hand  through  the  Doctor's  right  arm.  "All  that  time  the 
noise  of  the  guns  was  loud  in  our  ears.  It  never  ceased, 
monsieur,  until  to-day.  And  we  used  to  say,  'To-morrow 
the  English  will  come !  until  at  last  some  of  us  lost  heart 
• — not  I,  no,  always  I  believed  in  victory ! — and  said,  'The 
English  will  never  come.'  Now  you  are  here,  and  our 
hearts  are  full  of  joy.  It  is  like  a  dream.  The  Germans 
have  gone!" 

The  Doctor  patted  the  girl's  hand,  and  addressed  me 
across  the  tricolour  waved  by  the  small  Zouave. 


12  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"This  is  the  greatest  day  of  my  life!  And  I  am  per- 
fectly ashamed  of  myself.  In  spite  of  my  beard  and  my 
gig-lamps  and  my  anarchical  appearance,  these  dear  peo- 
ple take  me  for  an  English-  officer  and  a  fighting  hero! 
And  I  feel  like  one.  If  I  saw  a  German  now  I  truly 
believe  I  should  cut  his  throat.  Me — a  noncombatant 
and  a  man  of  peace!  I'm  horrified  at  my  own  blood- 
thirstiness.  The  worst  of  it  is  I'm  enjoying  it.  I'm  a 
primitive  man  for  a  time,  and  find  it  stimulating.  To- 
morrow I  shall  repent.  These  people  have  suffered  hell's 
torments.  I  can't  understand  a  word  the  little  old  lady  is 
telling  me,  but  I'm  sure  she's  been  through  infernal 
things.  And  this  pretty  girl.  She's  a  peach,  though 
plightly  tuberculous,  poor  child.  My  God — how  they 
hate!  There  is  a  stored-up  hatred  in  this  town  enough 
to  burn  up  Germany  by  mental  telepathy.  It's  frighten- 
ing. Hatred  and  joy,  I  feel  these  two  passions  like  a 
flame  about  us.  It's  spiritual.  It's  transcendental.  It's 
the  first  time  I've  seen  a  hundred  thousand  people  drunk 
with  joy  and  hate.  I'm  against  hate,  and  yet  the  suffer- 
ings of  these  people  make  me  see  red  so  that  I  want  to 
cut  a  German  throat!'* 

"You'd  stitch  it  up  afterwards,  Doctor,"  I  said. 

He  blinked  at  me  through  his  spectacles,  and  said : 

"I  hope  so.  I  hope  my  instinct  would  be  as  right  as 
that.  The  world  will  never  get  forward  till  we  have 
killed  hatred.  That's  my  religion." 

"Bandits!  assassins!"  grumbled  the  old  lady.  "Dirty 
people !" 

"Vvuent  les  Anglais!"  shouted  the  crowd,  surging  about 
the  little  man  with  the  beard. 

The  American  doctor  spoke  in  English  in  a  large  ex- 
planatory way. 

"I'm  American.  Don't  you  go  making  any  mistake. 
I'm  an  Uncle  Sam.  The  Yankee  boys  are  further  south 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  13 

and  %hting  like  hell,  poor  lads.  I  don't  deserve  any  of 
this  ovation,  my  dears." 

Then  in  French,  with  a  strong  American  accent,  he 
shouted : 

"Vive  la  France!  'Rah!  'Rah!  'Rah!" 

"Merci,  merci,  mon  General!"  said  an  old  woman,  mak- 
ing a  grab  at  the  little  doctor's  Sam  Brown  belt  and  kiss- 
ing him  on  the  beard.  The  crowd  closed  round  him  and 
bore  him  away.  .  .  . 

I  met  another  of  our  crowd  when  I  went  to  a  priest's 
house  in  a  turning  off  the  Rue  Royale.  Pierre  Nesle, 
our  liaison  officer — a  nice  simple  fellow  who  had  always 
been  very  civil  to  me — was  talking  to  the  priest  outside 
his  door,  and  introduced  me  in  a  formal  way  to  a  tall 
patrician-looking  old  man  in  a  long  black  gown.  It  was 
the  Abbe  Bourdin,  well  known  in  Lille  as  a  good  priest 
and  a  patriot. 

"Come  indoors,  gentlemen,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  will 
tell  you  what  happened  to  us,  though  it  would  take  four 
years  to  tell  you  all." 

Sitting  there  in  the  priest's  room,  barely  furnished, 
with  a  few  oak  chairs  and  a  writing-desk  littered  with 
papers,  and  a  table  covered  with  a  tattered  cloth  of  red 
plush,  we  listened  to  a  tragic  tale,  told  finely  and  with 
emotion  by  the  old  man  into  whose  soul  it  had  burned. 
It  was  the  history  of  a  great  population  caught  by  the 
tide  of  war  before  many  could  escape,  and  placed  under 
the  military  law  of  an  enemy  who  tried  to  break  his  spirit. 
They  failed  to  break  it,  in  spite  of  an  iron  discipline 
which  denied  them  all  liberty.  For  any  trivial  offence  by 
individuals  against  German  rule  the  whole  population  was 
fined  or  shut  up  in  their  houses  at  three  in  the  afternoon. 
There  were  endless  fines,  unceasing  and  intolerable  rob- 
beries under  the  name  of  "perquisitions."  That  had  not 
broken  the  people's  spirit.  There  were  worse  things  to 


14  WOUNDED  SOULS 

bear — the  removal  of  machinery  from  the  factories,  the 
taking  away  of  the  young  men  and  boys  for  forced 
labour,  and,  then,  the  greater  infamy  of  that  night  when 
machine-guns  were  placed  at  the  street  corners  and  Ger- 
man officers  ordered  each  household  to  assemble  at  the 
front  door  and  chose  the  healthy-looking  girls  by  the 
pointing  of  a  stick  and  the  word,  "You! — you! — "  for 
slave-labour — it  was  that — in  unknown  fields  far  away. 

The  priest's  face  blanched  at  the  remembrance  of  that 
scene.  His  voice  quavered  when  he  spoke  of  the  girls' 
screams — one  of  them  had  gone  raving  mad — and  of  the 
wailing  that  rose  among  their  stricken  families.  For  a 
while  he  was  silent,  with  lowered  head  and  brooding  eyes 
which  stared  at  a  rent  in  the  threadbare  carpet,  and  I 
noticed  the  trembling  of  a  pulse  on  his  right  temple  above 
the  deeply-graven  wrinkles  of  his  parchment  skin.  Then 
he  raised  his  head  and  spoke  harshly. 

"Not  even  that  could  break  the  spirit  of  my  people. 
They  only  said,  'We  will  never  forget,  and  never  for- 
give !'  They  were  hungry — we  did  not  get  much  food — 
but  they  said,  'Our  sons  who  are  fighting  for  us  are  suf- 
fering worse  things.  It  is  for  us  to  be  patient'  They 
were  surrounded  by  German  spies — the  secret  police — 
who  listened  to  their  words  and  haled  them  off  to  prison 
upon  any  pretext.  There  is  hardly  a  man  among  us  who 
has  not  been  in  prison.  The  women  were  made  to  do 
filthy  work  for  German  soldiers,  to  wash  their  lousy 
clothes,  to  scrub  their  dirty  barracks,  and  they  were  in- 
sulted, humiliated,  tempted,  by  brutal  men." 

"Was  there  much  of  that  brutality?"  I  asked. 

The  priest's  eyes  grew  sombre. 

"Many  women  suffered  abominable  things.  I  thank 
God  that  so  many  kept  their  pride,  and  their  honour. 
There  were,  no  doubt,  some  bad  men  and  women  in  the 
city — disloyal,  venal,  weak,  sinful — may  God  have  mercy 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  15 

on  their  souls — but  I  am  proud  of  being  a  Frenchman 
when  I  think  of  how  great  was  the  courage,  how  patient 
was  the  suffering  of  the  people  of  Lille." 

Pierre  Nesle  had  listened  to  that  monologue  with  a  vis- 
ible and  painful  emotion.  He  became  pale  and  flushed 
by  turns,  and  when  the  priest  spoke  about  the  forcible 
recruitment  of  the  women  a  sweat  broke  out  on  his  fore- 
head, and  he  wiped  it  away  with  a  handkerchief.  I  see 
his  face  now  in  profile,  sharply  outlined  against  some 
yellowing  folios  in  a  bookcase  behind  him,  a  typical 
Parisian  face  in  its  sharpness  of  outline  and  pallid  skin, 
with  a  little  black  moustache  above  a  thin,  sensitive 
mouth.  Before  I  had  seen  him  mostly  in  gay  moods — «• 
though  I  had  wondered  sometimes  at  the  sudden  silences 
into  which  he  fell  and  at  a  gloom  which  gave  him  a 
melancholy  look  when  he  was  not  talking,  or  singing,  or 
reciting  poetry,  or  railing  against  French  politicians,  or 
laughing,  almost  hysterically,  at  the  satires  of  Charles 
Fortune — our  "funny  man" — when  he  came  to  our  mess. 
Now  he  was  suffering  as  if  the  priest's  words  had  probed 
a  wound — though  not  the  physical  wound  which  had 
nearly  killed  him  in  Souchez  Wood. 

He  stood  up  from  the  wooden  chair  with  its  widely- 
curved  arms  in  which  he  had  been  sitting  stiffly,  and  spoke 
to  the  priest. 

"It  is  not  amusing,  mon  pere,  what  you  tell  us,  and 
what  we  have  all  guessed.  It  is  one  more  chapter  of 
tragedy  in  the  history  of  our  poor  France.  Pray  God 
the  war  will  soon  be  over." 

"With  victory !"  said  the  old  priest.  "With  an  enemy 
beaten  and  bleeding  beneath  our  feet.  The  Germans 
must  be  punished  for  all  their  crimes,  or  the  justice  of 
God  will  not  be  satisfied." 

There  was  a  thrill  of  passion  in  the  old  man's  voice 
and  his  nostrils  quivered. 


16  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"To  all  Frenchmen  that  goes  without  saying,"  said 
Pierre  Nesle.  "The  Germans  must  be  punished,  and 
will  be,  though  no  vengeance  will  repay  us  for  the  suffer- 
ing of  our  poilus — nor  for  the  agony  of  our  women  be- 
hind the  lines,  which  perhaps  was  the  greatest  of  all." 

The  Abb6  Bourdin  put  his  claw-like  old  hands  on  the 
young  man's  shoulders  and  drew  him  closer  and  kissed 
his  Croix  de  Guerre. 

"You  have  helped  to  give  victory,"  he  said.  "How 
many  Germans  have  you  killed  ?  How  many,  eh  ?" 

He  spoke  eagerly,  chuckling,  with  a  kind  of  childish 
eagerness  for  good  news. 

Pierre  Nesle  drew  back  a  little  and  a  faint  touch  of 
colour  crept  into  his  face,  and  then  left  it  whiter. 

"I  did  not  count  corpses,"  he  said.  He  touched  his 
left  side  and  laughed  awkwardly.  "I  remember  better 
that  they  nearly  made  a  corpse  of  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  my  friend 
spoke  in  a  casual  kind  of  way. 

"I  suppose,  mon  pere,  you  have  not  heard  of  my  sister 
being  in  Lille  ?  By  any  chance  ?  Her  name  was  Marthe. 
Marthe  Nesle." 

The  Abbe  Bourdin  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know  the  name.  There  are  many  young  wo- 
men in  Lille.  It  is  a  great  city." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Pierre  Nesle.     "There  are  many." 

He  bowed  over  the  priest's  hand,  and  then  saluted. 

"Bon  jour,  mon  pere,  et  merci  mille  fois." 

So  we  left,  and  the  Abbe  Bourdin  spoke  his  last  words 
to  me: 

"We  owe  our  liberation  to  the  English.  We  thank 
you.  But  why  did  you  not  come  sooner?  Two  years 
sooner,  three  years.  With  your  great  army?" 

"Many  of  our  men  died  to  get  here,"  I  said.  "Thou- 
sands." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  17 

"That  is  true.  That  is  true.  You  failed  many  times, 
I  know.  But  you  were  so  close.  One  big  push — eh? 
One  mighty  effort  ?  No  ?" 

The  priest  spoke  a  thought  which  I  had  heard  ex- 
pressed in  the  crowds.  They  were  grateful  for  our  com- 
ing, immensely  glad,  but  could  not  understand  why  we 
had  tried  their  patience  so  many  years.  That  had  been 
their  greatest  misery,  waiting,  waiting. 

I  spoke  to  Pierre  Nesle  on  the  doorstep  of  the  priest's 
house. 

"Have  you  an  idea  that  your  sister  is  in  Lille?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "No.  At  least  not  more  than  the 
faintest  hope.  She  is  behind  the  lines  somewhere — any- 
where. She  went  away  from  home  before  the  war — she 
was  a  singer — and  was  caught  in  the  tide." 

"No  news  at  all?"  I  asked. 

"Her  last  letter  was  from  Lille.  Or  rather  a  postcard 
with  the  Lille  stamp.  She  said,  T  am  amusing  myself 
well,  little  brother.'  She  and  I  were  good  comrades.  I 
look  for  her  face  in  the  crowds.  But  she  may  be  any- 
where— Valenciennes,  Maubeuge — God  knows!" 

A  shout  of  "Vive  la  France!"  rose  from  a  crowd  of 
people  surging  up  the  street.  Pierre  Nesle  was  in  the 
blue  uniform  of  the  chasseur  a  pled,  and  the  people  iri 
Lille  guessed  it  was  theirs  because  of  its  contrast  to  our 
khaki,  though  the  "horizon  bleu"  was  so  different  from 
the  uniforms  worn  by  the  French  army  of  '14.  To  them 
now,  on  the  day  of  liberation,  Pierre  Nesle,  our  little 
liaison  officer,  stood  for  the  Armies  of  France,  the  glory 
of  France.  Even  the  sight  of  our  khaki  did  not  fill  them 
with  such  wild  enthusiasm.  So  I  lost  him  again  as  I  had 
lost  the  little  American  doctor  in  the  surge  and  whirlpool 
of  the  crowd. 


II 

T  WAS  building  up  in  my  mind  the  historic  meaning  of 
•*•  the  day.  Before  nightfall  I  should  have  to  get  it 
written — the  spirit  as  well  as  the  facts,  if  I  could — in 
time  for  the  censors  and  the  despatch-riders.  The  facts  ? 
By  many  scraps  of  conversation  with  men  and  women  in 
the  streets  I  could  already  reconstruct  pretty  well  the 
life  of  Lille  in  time  of  war.  I  found  many  of  their 
complaints  rather  trivial.  The  Germans  had  wanted 
brass  and  had  taken  it,  down  to  the  taps  in  the  washing- 
places.  Well,  I  had  seen  worse  horrors  than  that.  They 
had  wanted  wool  and  had  taken  the  mattresses.  They 
had  requisitioned  all  the  wine  but  had  paid  for  it  at 
cheap  rates.  These  were  not  atrocities.  The  people  of 
Lille  had  been  short  of  food,  sometimes  on  the  verge 
of  starvation,  but  not  really  starved.  They  complained 
of  having  gone  without  butter,  milk,  sugar;  but  even  in 
England  these  things  were  hard  to  get.  No,  the  tragedy 
of  Lille  lay  deeper  than  that.  A  sense  of  fear  that  was 
always  with  them.  "Every  time  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,"  said  one  man,  "we  started  up  in  alarm.  It 
was  a  knock  at  our  hearts."  At  any  time  of  the  day  or 
night  they  were  subject  to  visits  from  German  police,  to 
searches,  arrests,  or  orders  to  get  out  of  their  houses  or 
rooms  for  German  officers  or  troops.  They  were  de- 
nounced by  spies,  Germans,  or  debased  people  of  their 
own  city,  for  trying  to  smuggle  letters  to  their  folk  in 
other  towns  in  enemy  occupation,  for  concealing  copper 
in  hiding-places,  for  words  of  contempt  against  the 
Kaiser  or  the  Kommandantur,  spoken  at  a  street-corner 

18 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  19 

between  one  friend  and  another.  That  consciousness  of 
being  watched,  overheard,  reported  and  denounced,  poi- 
soned the  very  atmosphere  of  their^lives,  and  the  sight  of 
the  field-grey  men  in  the  streets,  the  stench  of  them — 
the  smell  was  horrible  when  German  troops  marched 
back  from  ttfe  battlefields — produced  a  soul-sickness 
worse  than  physical  nausea.  I  could  understand  the 
constant  fret  at  the  nerves  of  these  people,  the  nagging 
humiliation, — they  had  to  doff  hats  to  every  German 
officer  who  swaggered  by — and  the  slow-burning  passion 
of  people,  proud  by  virtue  of  their  race,  who  found  them- 
selves controlled,  ordered  about,  bullied,  punished  for 
trivial  infractions  of  military  regulations,  by  German 
officials  of  hard,  unbending  arrogance.  That  must  have 
been  abominable  for  so  long  a  time;  but  as  yet  I  heard 
no  charges  of  definite  brutality,  or  of  atrocious  actions 
by  individual  enemies.  The  worst  I  had  heard  was  that 
levy  of  the  women  for  forced  labour  in  unknown  places. 
One  could  imagine  the  horror  of  it,  the  cruelty  of  it  to 
girls  whose  nerves  were  already  unstrung  by  secret  fears, 
dark  and  horrible  imaginings,  the  beast-like  look  in  the 
eyes  of  men  who  passed  them  in  the  streets.  Then  the 
long-delayed  hope  of  liberation — year  after  year — the 
German  boasts  of  victory,  the  strength  of  the  German  "de- 
fence that  never  seemed  to  weaken,  in  spite  of  the  desper- 
ate attacks  of  French  and  British,  the  preliminary  success 
of  their  great  offensive  in  March  and  April  when  masses 
of  English  prisoners  were  herded  through  Lille,  dejected, 
exhausted,  hardly  able  to  drag  their  feet  along  between 
their  sullen  guards — by  Heaven,  these  people  of  Lille  had 
needed  much  faith  to  save  them  from  despair.  No  won- 
der now,  that  on  the  first  day  of  liberation,  some  of  them 
were  wet-eyed  with  joy,  and  others  were  lightheaded 
with  liberty. 

In  the  Grande  Place  below  the  old  balustraded  Town 


20  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Hall  I  saw  young  Cyril  Clatworthy,  one  of  the  Intel- 
ligence crowd,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  girls  who  were 
stroking  his  tunic,  clasping  his  hands,  pushing  each  other 
laughingly  to  get  nearer  to  him.  He  was  in  lively  con- 
versation with  the  prettiest  girl  whom  he  kept  in  front 
of  him.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  enjoying  himself  as 
the  central  figure  of  this  hero-worship,  and  as  I  passed 
the  boy  (twenty- four  that  birthday,  he  had  told  me  a 
month  before),  I  marvelled  at  his  ceaseless  capacity  for 
amorous  adventure,  with  or  without  a  moment's  notice. 
A  pretty  girl,  if  possible,  or  a  plain  one  if  not,  drew  him 
like  a  magnet,  excited  all  his  boyish  egotism,  called  to 
the  faun-spirit  that  played  the  pipes  of  Pan  in  his  heart. 
It  was  an  amusing  game  for  him  with  his  curly  brown 
hair  and  Midshipman  Easy  type  of  face.  For  the  French 
girls  whom  he  had  met  on  his  way — little  Marcelle  on 
Cassel  Hill,  Christine  at  Corbie  on  the  Somme,  Mar- 
guerite in  the  hat-shop  at  Amiens  (what  became  of  her, 
poor  kid?),  it  was  not  so  amusing  when  he  "blew  away," 
as  he  called  it,  and  had  a  look  at  life  elsewhere. 

He  winked  at  me,  as  I  passed,  over  the  heads  of  the 
girls. 

"The  fruits  of  victory!"  he  called  out.  "There  is  a 
little  Miss  Brown-Eyes  here  who  is  quite  enchanting." 

It  was  rather  caddish  of  me  to  say: 

"Have  you  forgotten  Marguerite  Aubigny?" 

He  thought  so  too,  and  reddened,  angrily. 

"Go  to  blazes!"  he  said. 

His  greatest  chum,  and  one  of  mine, — Charles  For- 
tune— ywas  standing  outside  a  cafe  in  the  big  Place,  not 
far  from  the  Vieille  Bourse  with  its  richly-carved  Re- 
naissance front.  Here  there  was  a  dense  crowd,  but  they 
kept  at  a  respectful  distance  from  Fortune  who,  with 
his  red  tabs  and  red-and-blue  arm-band  and  row  of  rib- 
bons (all  gained  by  heroic  service  over  a  blotting-pad  in 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  21 

a  Nissen  hut)  looked  to  them,  no  doubt,  like  a  great  Gen- 
eral. He  had  his  "heroic"  face  on,  rather  mystical  and 
saintly.  He  had  a  variety  of  faces  for  divers  occa- 
sions— such  as  the  "sheep's  face"  in  the  presence  of 
Generals  who  disliked  brilliant  men,  the  "intelligent" 
face — bright  and  enquiring — for  senior  officers  who  liked 
easy  questions  to  which  they  could  give  portentous  an- 
swers, the  noble  face  for  the  benefit  of  military  chap- 
lains, foreign  visitors  to  the  war-zone,  and  batmen  before 
they  discovered  his  sense  of  humour;  and  the  old-Eng- 
lish-gentleman face  at  times  for  young  Harding,  who 
belonged  to  a  county  family  with  all  its  traditions,  poli- 
tics, and  instincts,  and  permitted  Fortune  to  pull  his  leg, 
to  criticise  Generals,  and  denounce  the  British  Empire, 
as  a  licensed  jester. 

Fortune  was  addressing  four  gentlemen  of  the  Town 
Council  of  Lille  who  stood  before  him,  holding  ancient 
top-hats. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Charles  Fortune  in  deliberate 
French,  with  an  exaggerated  accent,  "I  appreciate  very 
much  the  honour  you  have  just  paid  me  by  singing  that 
heroic  old  song,  'It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary.'  I 
desire,  however,  to  explain  to  you  that  it  is  not  as  yet 
the  National  Anthem  of  the  British  People,  and  that 
personally  I  have  never  been  to  Tipperary,  that  I  should 
find  some  difficulty  in  finding  that  place  on  the  map,  and 
that  I  never  want  to  go  there.  This,  however,  is  of  small 
importance,  except  to  British  Generals,  to  whom  all  small 
things  are  of  great  importance — revealing  therefore  their 
minute  attention  to  detail,  even  when  it  does  not  mat- 
ter— which,  I  may  say,  is  the  true  test  of  the  military 
mind  which  is  so  gloriously  winning  the  war,  after  many 
glorious  defeats  (I  mean  victories)  and "  (Here  For- 
tune became  rather  tangled  in  his  French  grammar,  but 
rescued  himself  after  a  still  more  heroic  look)  "and  it  is 


22  WOUNDED  SOULS 

with  the  deepest  satisfaction,  the  most  profound  emotion, 
that  I  find  myself  in  this  great  city  of  Lille  on  the  day  of 
liberation,  and  on  behalf  of  the  British  Army,  of  which 
I  am  a  humble  representative,  in  spite  of  these  ribbons 
which  I  wear  on  my  somewhat  expansive  chest,  I  thank 
you  from  my  heart,  with  the  words,  Vive  la  France!" 

Here  Fortune  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  looked  like  a 
Field  Marshal  while  he  waited  for  the  roar  of  cheers 
which  greeted  his  words.  The  mystical  look  on  his  face 
became  intensified  as  he  stood  there,  a  fine  heroic  figure 
(a  trifle  stout,  for  lack  of  exercise),  until  he  suddenly 
caught  sight  of  a  nice-looking  girl  in  the  crowd  nearest 
to  him,  and  gave  her  an  elaborate  wink,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "You  and  I  understand  each  other,  my  pretty  one! 
Beneath  this  heroic  pose  I  am  really  human." 

The  effect  of  that  wink  was  instantaneous.  The  girl 
blushed  vividly  and  giggled,  while  the  crowd  shouted  with 
laughter. 

"Quel  nuniero!  Quel  drole  de  type!"  said  a  man  by 
my  side. 

Only  the  four  gentleman  of  the  Town  Hall,  who  had 
resumed  their  top-hats,  looked  perplexed  at  this  grotesque 
contrast  between  the  heroic  speech  (it  had  sounded 
heroic)  and  its  anti-climax.  , 

Fortune  took  me  by  the  arm  as  I  edged  my  way  close 
to  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,  it  was  unbelievable  when  those  four 
old  birds  sang  'Tipperary'  with  bared  heads.  I  had  to 
stand  at  the  salute  while  they  sang  three  verses  with 
tears  in  their  eyes.  They  have  been  learning  it  during 
four  years  of  war.  Think  of  that !  And  think  of  what's 
happening  in  Ireland — in  Tipperary — now!  There's 
some  paradox  here  which  contains  all  the  comedy  and 
pathos  of  this  war.  I  must  think  it  out.  I  can't  quite 
get  at  it  yet,  but  I  feel  it  from  afar." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  23 

"This  is  not  a  day  for  satire,"  I  said.  "This  is  a  day 
for  sentiment.  These  people  have  escaped  from  fright- 
ful things " 

Fortune  looked  at  me  with  quizzical  grey  eyes  out  of 
his  handsome,  mask-like  face. 

"Et  tu,  Brute?  After  all  our  midnight  talks,  our 
laughter  at  the  mockery  of  the  gods,  our  intellectual 
slaughter  of  the  staff,  our  tearing  down  of  all  the  pom- 
pous humbug  which  has  bolstered  up  this  silly  old  war !" 

"I  know.  But  to-day  we  can  enjoy  the  spirit  of  vic- 
tory. It's  real,  here.  We  have  liberated  all  these  peo- 
ple." 

"We?  You  mean  the  young  Tommies  who  lie  dead 
the  other  side  of  the  canal?  We  come  in  and  get  the 
kudos.  Presently  the  Generals  will  come  and  say,  'We 
did  it.  Regard  our  glory!  Fling  down  your  flowers! 
Cheer  us,  good  people,  before  we  go  to  lunch.'  They 
will  not  see  behind  them  the  legions  they  sent  to  slaugh- 
ter by  ghastly  blunders,  colossal  stupidity,  invincible 
pomposity." 

Fortune  broke  into  song.    It  was  an  old  anthem  of  his : 

'fHlear-eyed  Bill,  the  Butcher  of  the  Boche," 

He  had  composed  it  after  a  fourth  whiskey  on  a  cot- 
tage piano  in  his  Nissen  hut.  In  crashing  chords  he  had 
revealed  the  soul  of  a  General  preparing  a  plan  of  bat- 
tle— over  the  telephone.  It  never  failed  to  make  me 
laugh,  except  that  day  in  Lille  when  it  was  out  of  tune, 
I  thought,  with  the  spirit  about  us. 

"Let's  put  the  bitter  taste  out  of  our  mouth  to-day," 
I  said. 

Fortune  made  his  sheep-face,  saluted  behind  his  ear, 
and  said,  "Every  inch  a  soldier — I  don't  think!" 


Ill 

TT  was  then  we  bumped  straight  into  Wickham  Brand, 
-•-  who  was  between  a  small  boy  and  girl,  holding  his 
hands,  while  a  tall  girl  of  sixteen  or  so,  with  a  yellow 
pig-tail  slung  over  her  shoulder,  walked  alongside,  talk- 
ing vivaciously  of  family  experiences  under  German  rule. 
Pierre  Nesle  was  on  the  other  side  of  her. 

"In  spite  of  all  the  fear  we  had — oh,  how  frightened 
we  were  sometimes! — we  used  to  laugh  very  much. 
Maman  made  a  joke  of  everything — it  was  the  only  way. 
Maman  was  wonderfully  brave,  except  when  she  thought 
that  Father  might  have  been  killed." 

"Where  was  your  father?"  asked  Brand.  "On  the 
French  side  of  the  lines?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  He  was  an  officer  in  the  artillery. 
We  said  good-bye  to  him  on  August  2nd  of  the  first  year, 
when  he  went  off  to  the  depot  at  Belfort.  We  all  cried 
except  maman — father  was  crying  too — but  maman  did 
not  wink  away  even  the  tiniest  tear  until  father  had  gone. 
Then  she  broke  down  so  that  we  all  howled  at  the  sight 
of  her.  Even  these  babies  joined  in.  They  were  only 
babies  then." 

"Any  news  of  him?"  asked  Brand. 

"Not  a  word.  How  could  there  be?  Perhaps  in  a 
few  days  he  will  walk  into  Lille.  So  maman  says." 

"That  would  be  splendid!"  said  Brand.  "What  is  his 
name  ?" 

"Cheri.  M.  le  Commandant  Anatole  Cheri,  5Qth 
Brigade  artillerie  lourde." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  25 

The  girl  spoke  her  father's  name  proudly. 

I  saw  a  startled  look  come  into  the  eyes  of  Pierre  Nesle 
as  he  heard  the  name.  In  English  he  said  to  Brand : 

"I  knew  him  at  Verdun.     He  was  killed." 

Wickham  Brand  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  his  voice 
was  husky  when  he  spoke,  in  English  too. 

"What  cruelty  it  all  is !" 

The  girl  with  the  pig-tail — a  tall  young  creature  with 
a  delicate  face  and  big  brown  eyes — stared  at  Pierre 
Nesle  and  then  at  Wickham  Brand.  She  asked  an  abrupt 
question  of  Pierre. 

"Is  my  father  dead?" 

Pierre  Nesle  stammered  something.  He  was  not  sure. 
He  had  heard  that  the  Commandant  Cheri  was  wounded 
at  Verdun. 

The  girl  understood  perfectly. 

"He  is  dead,  then  ?    Maman  will  be  very  sorry." 

She  did  not  cry.  There  was  not  even  a  quiver  of  her 
lips.  She  shook  hands  with  Brand  and  said : 

"I  must  go  and  tell  maman.  Will  you  come  and  see 
us  one  day?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Brand. 

"Promise?" 

The  girl  laughed  as  she  raised  her  finger. 

"I  promise,"  said  Brand  solemnly. 

The  girl  "collected"  the  small  boy  and  girl,  holding 
their  heads  close  to  her  waist. 

"Is  father  dead?"  said  the  small  boy. 

"Perhaps.    I  believe  so,"  said  the  elder  sister. 

"Then  we  shan't  get  the  toys  from  Paris?"  said  the 
small  girl. 

"I  am  afraid  not,  coquine" 

"What  a  pity !"  said  the  boy. 

Pierre  Nesle  took  a  step  forward  and  saluted. 


26  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  permit  it,  mademoiselle.  It 
is  perhaps  in  a  little  way  my  duty,  as  I  met  your  father 
in  the  war." 

"Thanks  a  thousand  times,"  said  the  girl.  "Maman 
will  be  glad  to  know  all  you  can  tell  her." 

She  waved  to  Brand  a  merry  au  revoir. 

We  stood  watching  them  cross  the  Grande  Place,  that 
tall  girl  and  the  two  little  ones,  and  Pierre. 

Fortune  touched  Brand  on  the  arm. 

"Plucky,  that  girl,"  he  said.  "Took  it  without  a 
whimper.  I  wonder  if  she  cared." 

Brand  turned  on  him  rather  savagely. 

"Cared?  Of  course  she  cared.  But  she  had  expected 
it  for  four  years,  grown  up  to  the  idea.  These  war  chil- 
dren have  no  illusions  about  the  business.  They  knew 
that  the  odds  are  in  favour  of  death." 

He  raised  his  hands  above  his  head  with  a  sudden 
passionate  gesture. 

"Christ  God !"  he  said.  "The  tragedy  of  those  people ! 
The  monstrous  cruelty  of  it  all !" 

Fortune  took  his  hand  and  patted  it,  in  a  funny  affec- 
tionate way. 

"You  are  too  sensitive,  Wicky.  'A  sensitive  plant  in 
a  garden  grew' — a  war-garden,  with  its  walls  blown 
down,  and  dead  bodies  among  the  little  daisies-o.  I  try 
to  cultivate  a  sense  of  humour,  and  a  little  irony.  It's 
a  funny  old  war,  Wicky,  believe  me,  if  you  look  at  it  in 
the  right  light." 

Wickham  groaned. 

"I  see  no  humour  in  it,  nor  light  anywhere." 

Fortune  chanted  again  the  beginning  of  his  Anthem: 

"Blear-eyed   Bill,   the   Butcher   of  the   Boche." 

i 

As  usual,  there  was  a  crowd  about  us,  smiling,  waving 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  27 

handkerchiefs  and  small  flags,  pressing  forward  to  shake 
hands  and  to  say,  "Vivent  les  Anglais!" 

It  was  out  of  that  crowd  that  a  girl  came  and  stood 
in  front  of  us,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand. 

"Good  morning,  British  officers!  I'm  English— or 
Irish,  which  is  good  enough.  Welcome  to  Lille." 

Fortune  shook  hands  with  her  first  and  said  very 
formally,  in  his  mocking  way: 

"How  do  you  do?  Are  you  by  chance  my  long-lost 
sister?  Is  there  a  strawberry-mark  on  your  left  arm?" 

She  laughed  with  a  big,  open-mouthed  laugh,  on  a  con- 
tralto note  that  was  good  to  hear. 

"I'm  everybody's  sister  who  speaks  the  English  tongue, 
which  is  fine  to  the  ears  of  me  after  four  years  in  Lille. 
Eileen  O'Connor,  by  your  leave,  gentlemen." 

"Not  Eileen  O'Connor  of  Tipperary?"  asked  Fortune 
gravely.  "You  know  the  Long,  Long  Way,  of  course?" 

"Once  of  Dublin,"  said  the  girl,  "and  before  the  war 
of  Holland  Street,  Kensington,  in  the  village  of  London. 
Oh,  to  hear  the  roar  of  'buses  in  the  High  Street  and  to 
see  the  glint  of  sunlight  on  the  Round  Pond !" 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  shabbily  dressed  in  an  old  coat 
and  skirt,  with  a  bit  of  fur  round  her  neck  and  hat,  but 
with  a  certain  look  of  elegance  in  the  thin  line  of  her 
figure  and  the  poise  of  her  head.  Real  Irish,  by  the 
look  of  her  dark  eyes  and  a  rather  irregular  nose,  and 
humourous  lips.  Not  pretty,  in  the  English  way,  but 
spirited,  and  with  some  queer  charm  in  her. 

Wickham  Brand  was  holding  her  hand. 

"Good  Lord!  Eileen  O'Connor?  I  used  to  meet  you, 
years  ago,  at  the  Wilmots — those  funny  tea-parties  in 
Chelsea." 

"With  farthing  buns  and  cigarettes,  and  young  boys 
with  big  ideas!" 

The  girl  laughed  with  a  kind  of  wonderment,  and  stood 


28  WOUNDED  SOULS 

close  to  Wickham  Brand,  holding  his  Sam  Brown  belt, 
and  staring  up  into  his  face. 

"Why,  you  must  be — you  must  be You  are — the 

tall  boy  who  used  to  grow  out  of  his  grey  suits,  and  wrote 
mystical  verse  and  read  Tolstoy,  and  growled  at  civilisa- 
tion and  smoked  black  pipes  and  fell  in  love  with  elderly 
artists'  models.  Wickham  Brand!" 

"That's  right,"  said  Brand,  ignoring  the  laughter  of 
Fortune  and  myself.  "Then  I  went  to  Germany  and 
studied  their  damned  philosophy,  and  then  I  became  a 
briefless  barrister,  and  after  that  took  to  writing  un- 
successful novels.  Here  I  am,  after  four  years  of  war, 
ashamed  to  be  alive  when  all  my  pals  are  dead." 

He  glanced  at  Fortune  and  me,  and  said,  "Or  most 
of  'em." 

"It's  the  same  Wicky  I  remember,"  said  the  girl,  "and 
at  the  sight  of  you  I  feel  I've  gone  back  to  myself  as  a 
tousled-haired  thing  in  a  short  frock  and  long  black  stock- 
ings. The  good  old  days  before  the  war.  Before  other 
things  and  all  kinds  of  things." 

"Why  on  earth  were  you  in  Lille  when  the  war  be- 
gan?" asked  Brand. 

"It  just  happened.  I  taught  painting  here.  Then  I 
was  caught  with  the  others.  We  did  not  think  They 
would  come  so  soon." 

She  used  the  word  They  as  we  all  did,  meaning  the 
grey  men. 

"It  must  have  been  hell,"  said  Brand. 

"Mostly  hell,"  said  Miss  O'Connor  brightly.  "At 
least,  one  saw  into  the  gulfs  of  hell,  and  devilishness  was 
close  at  hand.  But  there  were  compensations,  wee  bits 
of  heaven.  On  the  whole  I  enjoyed  myself." 

"Enjoyed  yourself?" 

Brand  was  startled  by  that  phrase. 

"Oh,  it  was  an  adventure.     I  took  risks — and  came 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  29 

through.  I  lived  all  of  it — every  minute.  It  was  a 
touch-and-go  game  with  the  devil  and  death,  and  I 
dodged  them  both.  Dieu  soit  merci!" 

She  laughed  with  a  little  throw-back  of  the  head,  show- 
ing a  white  full  throat  above  the  ragged  bit  of  fur.  A 
number  of  Frenchwomen  pressed  about  her.  Some  of 
them  patted  her  arms,  fondled  her  hands.  One  woman 
bent  down  and  kissed  her  shabby  jacket. 

"Elle  etait  merueilleuse,  la  demoiselle,"  said  an  old 
Frenchman  by  my  side.  "She  was  marvellous,  sir.  All 
that  she  did  for  the  wounded,  for  your  prisoners,  for 
many  men  who  owe  their  lives  to  her,  cannot  be  told  in 
a  little  while.  They  tried  to  catch  her.  She  was  nearly 
caught.  It  is  a  miracle  that  she  was  not  shot  A  mir- 
acle, monsieur!" 

Other  people  in  the  crowd  spoke  to  me  about  *'la  dem- 
oiselle." They  were  mysterious.  Even  now  they 
could  not  tell  me  all  she  had  done.  But  she  had  risked 
death  every  day  for  four  years.  Every  day.  Truly  it 
was  a  miracle  she  was  not  caught. 

Listening  to  them  I  missed  some  of  Eileen  O'Connor's 
own  words  to  Brand,  and  saw  only  the  wave  of  her  hand 
as  she  disappeared  into  the  crowd. 

It  was  Brand  who  told  me  that  he  and  I  and  Fortune 
had  been  invited  to  spend  the  evening  with  her,  or  an 
hour  or  so.  I  saw  that  Wicky,  as  we  called  him,  was 
startled  by  the  meeting  with  her,  and  was  glad  of  it. 

"I  knew  her  when  we  were  kids,"  he  said.  "Ten 
years  ago — perhaps  more.  She  used  to  pull  my  hair! 
Extraordinary,  coming  face  to  face  with  her  in  Lille,  on 
this  day  of  all  days." 

He  turned  to  Fortune  with  a  look  of  command. 

"We  ought  to  get  busy  with  that  advanced  headquar- 
ters. There  are  plenty  of  big  houses  in  these  streets." 

"Ce  qu'on  appelle  unembarras  de  choix,"  said  Fortune 


30  WOUNDED  SOULS 

with  his  rather  comical  exaggeration  of  accent.  "And 
Blear-eyed  Bill  wants  us  to  go  on  beating  the  Boche. 
I  insist  on  a  house  with  a  good  piano — German  for 
choice." 

They  went  off  on  their  quest,  and  I  to  my  billet,  which 
had  been  found  by  the  Major  of  ours,  where  I  wrote  the 
story  of  how  we  entered  Lille,  on  a  typewriter  with  a 
twisted  ribbon  which  would  not  write  quickly  enough  all 
I  wanted  to  tell  the  world  about  a  day  of  history. 


IV 

I  HAD  the  luck  to  be  billeted  in  Lille  at  the  house  of 
Madame  Cheri,  in  the  rue  Esquermoise. 
This  lady  was  the  mother  of  the  girl  with  the  pig-tail 
and  the  two  children  with  whom  Wickham  Brand  had 
made  friends  on  this  morning  of  liberation — the  wife  of 
that  military  officer  whom  Pierre  Nesle  had  known  at 
Verdun  and  knew  to  be  killed.  It  was  my  luck,  because 
there  were  children  in  the  house — the  pig-tailed  girl, 
Helene,  was  more  a  woman  than  a  child,  though  only  six- 
teen— and  I  craved  for  a  touch  of  home-life  and  chil- 
• 

dren's  company,  after  so  long  an  exile  in  the  war-zone 
always  among  men  who  talked  of  war,  thought  of  it, 
dreamed  of  it,  year  in,  year  out. 

Madame  Cheri  was,  I  thought  when  I  saw  her  first,  a 
beautiful  woman,  not  physically — because  she  was  too 
white  and  worn — but  spiritually,  in  courage  of  soul. 
Pierre  Nesle,  our  liaison  officer,  told  me  how  she  had 
received  the  news  of  her  husband's  death — unflinchingly, 
without  a  cry.  She  knew,  she  said,  in  her  heart,  that 
he  was  dead.  Some  queer  message  had  reached  her  one 
night  during  the  Verdun  battles.  It  was  no  ghost,  or 
voice,  but  only  a  sudden  cold  conviction  that  her  man 
had  been  killed.  For  the  children's  sake  she  had  pre- 
tended that  their  father  might  come  back.  It  gave  them 
something  to  look  forward  to.  The  little  ones  were  al- 
ways harping  on  the  hope  that  when  peace  came  this 
mysterious  and  glorious  man  whom  they  remembered 
only  vaguely  as  one  who  had  played  bears  with  them, 
and  had  been  the  provider  of  all  good  things,  would  re- 

31 


32  WOUNDED  SOULS 

turn  with  rich  presents  from  Paris — tin  soldiers,  Queen- 
dolls,  mechanical  toys.  Helene,  the  elder  girl,  was  differ- 
ent. She  had  looked  curiously  at  her  mother  when  the 
children  prattled  like  that,  and  Madame  Cheri  had  pre- 
tended to  believe  in  the  father's  home-coming.  Once 
or  twice  the  girl  had  said,  "Papa  may  be  killed,"  in  a  mat- 
ter-of-fact way.  Yet  she  had  been  his  devoted  comrade. 
They  had  been  such  lovers,  the  father  and  daughter,  that 
sometimes  the  mother  had  been  a  little  jealous,  so  she 
said  in  her  frank  way  to  Pierre  Nesle,  smiling  as  she 
spoke.  The  war  had  made  Helene  a  realist,  like  most 
French  girls  to  whom  the  idea  of  death  became  common- 
place, almost  inevitable,  as  the  ceaseless  slaughter  of  men 
went  on.  The  German  losse<=  had  taught  them  that. 

I  had  the  Colonel's  dressing-room — he  had  attained  the 
grade  of  Colonel  before  Verdun,  so  Pierre  told  me— -t 
and  Madame  Cheri  came  in  while  I  was  there  to  see  that 
it  was  properly  arranged  for  me.  Over  his  iron  bed- 
stead (the  Germans  had  taken  the  woollen  mattress,  so 
that  it  had  been  replaced  by  bags  of  straw)  was  his 
portrait  as  a  lieutenant  of  artillery,  as  he  had  been  at  the 
time  of  his  marriage.  He  .was  a  handsome  fellow,  rather 
like  Helene,  with  her  delicate  profile  and  brown  eyes, 
though  more  like,  said  Madame  Cheri,  their  eldest  boy 
Edouard. 

"Where  is  he?"  I  asked,  and  that  was  the  only  time 
I  saw  Madame  Cheri  break  down,  utterly. 

She  began  to  tell  me  that  Edouard  had  been  taken  away 
by  the  Germans  among  all  the  able-bodied  men  and  boys 
who  were  sent  away  from  Lille  for  digging  trenches  be- 
hind the  lines,  in  Easter  of  '16,  and  that  he  had  gone 
bravely,  with  his  little  pack  of  clothes  over  his  shoulder, 
saying,  "It  is  nothing,  maman.  My  Father  taught  me  the 
word  courage.  In  a  little  while  we  shall  win,  and  I  shall 
be  back.  Courage,  courage!" 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  33 

Madame  Cheri  repeated  her  son's  words  proudly,  so 
that  I  seemed  to  see  the  boy  with  that  pack  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  a  smile  on  his  face.  Then  suddenly  she  wept 
bitterly,  wildly,  her  body  shaken  with  a  kind  of  ague, 
while  she  sat  on  the  iron  bedstead  with  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

I  repeated  the  boy's  words. 

"Courage,  courage,  madame!" 

Proudly  she  wailed  out  in  broken  sentences : 

"He  was  such  a  child!  .  .  .  He  caught  cold  so  eas- 
ily! ...  He  was  so  delicate!  .  .  .  He  needed  mother- 
love  so  much!  .  .  .  For  two  years  no  word  has  come 
from  him !" 

In  a  little  while  she  controlled  herself  and  begged  me 
to  excuse  her.  We  went  down  together  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  the  children  were  playing,  and  Helene  was 
reading;  and  she  insisted  upon  my  drinking  a  glass  of 
wine  from  the  store  which  she  had  kept  hidden  from  the 
Germans  in  a  pit  which  Edouard  had  dug  in  the  garden, 
in  the  first  days  of  the  occupation.  The  children  were 
delighted  with  that  trick  and  roared  with  laughter. 

Helene,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip,  spoke  bitterly. 

"The  Boche  is  a  stupid  animal.  One  can  dupe  him 
easily." 

"Not  always  easily,"  said  Madame  Cheri.  She  opened 
a  secret  cupboard  behind  a  bookcase  standing  against  the 
panelled  wall. 

"I  hid  all  my  brass  and  copper  here.  A  German  police 
officer  came  and  said,  'Have  you  hidden  any  copper, 
madame?'  I  said,  'There  is  nothing  hidden/  'Do  you 
swear  it  ?'  he  asked.  'I  swear  it/  I  answered  very  haught- 
ily. He  went  straight  to  the  bookcase,  pushed  it  on  one 
side,  tapped  the  wall,  and  opened  the  secret  cupboard, 
which  was  stuffed  full  of  brass  and  copper.  'You  are  a 
liar,  madame/  he  said,  'like  all  Frenchwomen/  'And 


34  WOUNDED  SOULS 

you  are  an  insolent  pig,  like  all  Germans,'  I  remarked 
That  cost  me  a  fine  of  ten  thousand  francs." 

Madame  Cheri  saw  nothing  wrong  in  swearing  falsely 
to  a  German.  I  think  she  held  that  nothing  was  wrong 
to  deceive  or  to  destroy  any  individual  of  the  German 
race,  and  I  could  understand  her  point  of  view  when 
Pierre  Nesle  told  me  of  one  thing  that  had  happened 
which  she  never  told  to  me.  It  was  about  Helene. 

A  German  captain  was  billeted  in  the  house.  They 
ignored  his  presence,  though  he  tried  to  ingratiate  him- 
self. Helene  hated  him  with  a  cold  and  deadly  hatred. 
She  trembled  if  he  passed  her  on  the  stairs.  His  pres- 
ence in  the  house,  even  if  she  did  not  see  him,  but  only 
heard  him  move  in  his  room,  made  her  feel  ill.  Yet  he 
was  very  polite  to  her  and  said,  "Guten  Tag,  gnadiges 
Fraulein"  whenever  they  met.  To  Edouard  also  he  was 
courteous  and  smiling,  though  Edouard  was  sullen.  He 
was  a  stout  little  man  with  a  round  rosy  face  and  little 
bright  eyes  behind  big  black-rimmed  glasses,  an  officer 
in  the  Kommandantur,  and  formerly  a  schoolmaster. 
Madame  Cheri  was  polite  to  him  but  cold,  cold  as  ice. 
After  some  months  she  found  him  harmless,  though  ob- 
jectionable because  German.  It  did  not  seem  dangerous 
to  leave  him  in  the  house  one  evening  when  she  went  to 
visit  a  dying  friend — Madame  Vailly.  She  was  later 
than  she  meant  to  be — so  late  that  she  was  liable  to 
arrest  by  the  military  police  if  they  saw  her  slip  past  in 
the  darkness  of  the  unlit  streets.  When  she  came  home 
she  slipped  the  latch-key  into  the  door  and  went  quietly 
into  the  hall.  The  children  would  be  in  bed  and  asleep. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  a  noise  startled  her.  It  was  a 
curious  creaking,  shaking  noise  as  of  a  door  being  pushed 
by  some  heavy  weight,  then  banged  by  it.  It  was  the  door 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  on  the  left.  Helene's  room. 

"Qu'est-ce  que  tu  fais  la?"  said  Madame  Cheri. 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  35 

She  was  very  frightened  with  some  unknown  fear, 
and  held  tight  to  the  bannister,  as  she  went  upstairs. 
There  was  a  glimmer  of  light  on  the  landing.  It  was 
from  a  candle  which  had  almost  burnt  out,  and  was  gut- 
tering in  a  candlestick  placed  on  the  topmost  stair.  A 
grotesque  figure  was  revealed  by  the  light — Schwarz,  the 
German  officer,  in  his  pyjamas,  with  a  helmet  on  his 
head  and  unlaced  boots  on  his  feet.  The  loose  fat  of 
the  man  no  longer  girded  by  a  belt  made  him  look  like 
a  mass  of  jelly,  as  he  had  his  shoulder  to  the  door, 
shoving  and  grunting  as  he  tried  to  force  it  open.  He 
was  swearing  to  himself  in  German,  and  now  and  then 
called  out  softly  in  French,  in  a  kind  of  drunken  German- 
French  : 

"Ouvrez,  kleines  Maddien,  ma,  jolie  Schatz.  Owvrea 
done." 

Madame  Cheri  was  paralysed  for  a  moment  by  a  shock 
of  horror;  quite  speechless  and  motionless.  Then  sud- 
denly she  moved  forward  and  spoke  in  a  fierce  whisper. 

"What  are  you  doing,  beast?" 

Schwarz  gave  a  queer  snort  of  alarm. 

He  stood  swaying  a  little,  with  the  helmet  on  the  back 
of  his  head.  The  candlelight  gleamed  on  its  golden  eagle. 
His  face  was  hotly  flushed,  and  there  was  a  ferocious  look 
in  his  eyes.  Madame  Cheri  saw  that  he  was  drunk. 

He  spoke  to  her  in  horrible  French,  so  Pierre  Nesle 
told  me,  imitating  it  savagely,  as  Madame  Cheri  had  done 
to  him.  The  man  was  filthily  drunk  and  declared  that 
he  loved  Helene  and  would  kill  her  if  she  did  not  let  him 
love  her.  Why  did  she  lock  her  door  like  that?  He 
had  been  kind  to  her.  He  had  smiled  at  her.  A  German 
officer  was  a  human  being,  not  a  monster.  Why  did  they 
treat  him  as  a  monster,  draw  themselves  away  when  he 
passed,  become  silent  when  he  wished  to  speak  with 


86  WOUNDED  SOULS 

them,  stare  at  him  with  hate  in  their  eyes?  The  French 
people  were  all  devils,  proud  as  devils. 

Another  figure  stood  on  the  landing.  It  was  Edouard 
— a  tall,  slim  figure  with  a  white  face  and  burning  eyes, 
in  which  there  was  a  look  of  fury. 

"What  is  happening,  mamanf"  he  said  coldly.  "What 
does  this  animal  want?" 

,  Madame  Cheri  trembled  with  a  new  fear.  If  the  boy 
were  to  kill  that  man,  he  would  be  shot.  She  had  a 
vision  of  him  standing  against  a  wall.  .  .  . 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said.  "This  gentleman  is  ill.  Go 
back  to  bed,  Edouard.  I  command  you." 

The  German  laughed,  stupidly. 

"To  bed,  shafskopf.  I  am  going  to  open  your  sister's 
door.  She  loves  me.  She  calls  to  me.  I  hear  her 
whisper,  'Ich  liebe  dich!'  " 

Edouard  had  a  stick  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  heavy 
walking-stick  which  had  belonged  to  his  father.  With- 
out a  word  he  sprang  forward,  raised  his  weapon,  and 
smashed  it  down  on  the  German's  head.  It  knocked  off 
Schwarz's  helmet,  which  rolled  from  the  top  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  staircase,  and  hit  the  man  a  glancing  blow 
on  the  temple.  He  fell  like  a  log.  Edouard  smiled  and 
said,  "Trcs  bien."  Then  he  rattled  the  lock  of  his  sister's 
door  and  called  out  to  her: 

"Helene.  .  .  .  Have  no  fear.  He  is  dead.  I  have 
killed  him." 

It  was  then  that  Madame  Cheri  had  her  greatest  fear. 
There  was  no  sound  from  Helene.  She  did  not  answer 
any  of  their  cries.  She  did  not  open  the  door  to  them. 
They  tried  to  force  the  lock,  as  Schwarz  had  done,  but 
though  the  lock  gave  at  last  the  door  would  not  open, 
kept  closed  by  some  barricade  behind  it.  Edouard  and 
his  mother  went  out  into  the  yard  and  the  boy  climbed  up 
to  his  sister's  window  and  broke  the  glass  to  go  through. 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  37 

Helena  was  lying  in  her  nightdress  on  the  bedroom  floor, 
unconscious.  She  had  moved  a  heavy  wardrobe  in  front 
of  the  door,  by  some  supernatural  strength  whch  came 
from  fear.  Then  she  had  fainted.  To  his  deep  regret 
Edouard  had  not  killed  the  German. 

Schwarz  had  crawled  back  to  his  bedroom  when  they 
went  back  into  the  house,  and  next  morning  wept  to 
Madame  Cheri,  and  implored  forgiveness.  There  had 
been  a  little  banquet,  he  said,  and  he  had  drunk  too  much. 

Madame  Cheri  did  not  forgive.  She  called  at  the 
Kommandantur  where  the  General  saw  her,  and  listened 
to  her  gravely.  He  did  not  waste  words. 

"The  matter  will  be  attended  to,"  he  said. 

Captain  Schwarz  departed  that  day  from  the  house 
in  the  rue  Esquermoise.  He  was  sent  to  a  battalion  in 
the  line  and  was  killed  somewhere  near  Ypres. 


V 

WICKHAM  BRAND  paid  his  promised  visit  to  the 
Cheri  family,  according  to  his  pledge  to  Helene, 
whom  he  had  met  in  the  street  the  previous  day,  and  he 
had  to  drink  some  of  the  hidden  wine,  as  I  had  done, 
and  heard  the  story  of  its  concealment  and  of  Madame's 
oath  about  the  secret  hoard  of  copper.  I  think  he  was 
more  disconcerted  than  I  had  been  by  that  avowal  and 
told  me  afterwards  that  he  believed  no  Englishwoman 
would  have  sworn  to  so  deliberate  a  lie. 

"That's  because  the  English  are  not  so  logical,"  I  said 
and  he  puzzled  over  that. 

He  was  greatly  taken  with  Helene,  as  she  with  him,  but 
he  risked  their  friendship  in  an  awkward  moment  when 
he  expressed  the  hope  that  the  German  offer  of  peace 
(the  one  before  the  final  surrender)  would  be  accepted. 

It  was  Madame  Cheri  who  took  him  up  on  that,  sharp- 
ly, and  with  a  kind  of  surprised  anguish  in  her  voice. 
She  hoped,  she  said,  that  no  peace  would  be  made  with 
Germany  until  French  and  British  and  American  troops 
had  smashed  the  German  armies,  crossed  the  German 
frontier,  and  destroyed  many  German  towns  and  villages. 
She  would  not  be  satisfied  with  any  peace  that  came  be- 
fore a  full  vengeance,  so  that  German  women  would  taste 
the  bitterness  of  war  as  Frenchwomen  had  drunk  deep 
of  it,  and  until  Germany  was  heaped  with  ruins  as  France 
had  been. 

Wickham  Brand  was  sitting  with  the  small  boy  on  his 
knees,  and  stroked  his  hair  before  answering. 

38 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  39 

"Dites,  done!"  said  Helene,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
hearthrug  looking  up  at  his  powerful  profile,  which 
reminded  me  always  of  a  Norman  knight,  or,  sometimes, 
of  a  young  monk  worried  about  his  soul  and  the  Devil. 

He  had  that  monkish  look  now  when  he  answered. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  have  felt  like  that  often. 
'But  I  have  come  to  think  that  the  sooner  we  get  blood 
out  of  our  eyes  the  better  for  all  the  world.  I  have  seen 
enough  dead  Germans — and  dead  English  and  dead 
French — to  last  a  lifetime.  Many  of  the  German  soldiers 
hate  the  war,  as  I  know,  and  curse  the  men  who  drove 
them  on  to  it.  They  are  trapped.  They  cannot  escape 
from  the  thing  they  curse,  because  of  their  discipline, 
their  patriotism " 

"Their  patriotism!"  said  Madame  Cheri. 

She  was  really  angry  with  Brand,  and  I  noticed  that 
even  Helene  drew  back  a  little  from  her  place  on  the  rug 
and  looked  perplexed  and  disappointed.  Madame  Cheri 
ridiculed  the  idea  of  German  patriotism.  They  were 
brutes  who  liked  war  except  when  they  feared  defeat. 
They  had  committed  a  thousand  atrocities  out  of  sheer 
joy  in  bestial  cruelty.  Their  idea  of  patriotism  was  blood- 
lust  and  the  oppression  of  people  more  civilised  than 
themselves.  They  hated  all  people  who  were  not  savages 
like  themselves. 

Wickham  Brand  shook  his  head. 

"They're  not  all  as  bad  as  that.  I  knew  decent  people 
among  them  before  the  war.  For  a  time,  of  course,  they 
went  mad.  They  were  poisoned  by  the  damnable  philos- 
ophy of  their  leaders  and  teachers." 

"They  liked  the  poison,"  said  Madame  Cheri.  "They 
lapped  it  up.  It  is  in  their  blood  and  spirits.  They  are 
foul  through  and  through." 

"They  are  devils,"  said  Helene.  She  shuddered  as 
though  she  felt  very  cold. 


40  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Even  the  small  boy  on  Brand's  knees  said : 

"Sales  Boches!" 

Brand  groaned,  in  a  whimsical  way. 

"I  have  said  all  those  things  a  thousand  times !  They 
nearly  drove  me  mad.  But  now  it's  time  to  stop  the  river 
of  blood — if  the  German  army  will  acknowledge  defeat. 
I  would  not  go  on  a  day  after  that,  for  our  own  sakes — 
for  the  sake  of  French  boys  and  English.  Every  day 
more  of  war  means  more  dead  of  ours,  more  blind,  more 
crippled,  and  more  agony  of  soul.  I  want  some  of  our 
boyhood  to  be  saved." 

Madame  Cheri  answered  coldly. 

"Not  before  the  Germans  have  been  punished.  Not 
before  that,  if  we  all  die." 

Helene  sprang  up  with  a  passionate  gesture. 

"All  German  babies  ought  to  be  strangled  in  their 
cradles!  Before  they  grow  up  to  be  fat,  beastly  men." 

She  was  thinking  of  Schwarz,  I  imagine.  It  was  the 
horror  of  remembrance  which  made  her  so  fierce.  Then 
she  laughed,  and  said: 

"O  la  la,  let  us  be  glad  because  yesterday  we  were 
liberated.  Do  not  quarrel  with  an  English  officer,  maman. 
He  helped  to  save  us." 

She  put  her  hands  on  Wickham  Brand's  shoulders  and 
said: 

"Merci,  mon  capitainef 

So  the  conversation  turned  and  Wickham  won  them 
back  by  his  courtesy,  *and  by  a  tribute  to  the  courage  of 
French  civilians  behind  the  lines,  of  whom  he  told  many 
haunting  stories. 

But  when  I  walked  round  with  him  to  his  mess — we 
were  going  round  later  to  see  Eileen  O'Connor — he  re- 
ferred back  to  the  incident. 

"Daddy  Small  is  right."  (He  referred  to  the  little 
American  doctor.)  "The  hatred  of  these  people  is  tran- 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  41 

scendental.  It  is  like  a  spiritual  flame.  It  is  above  all 
self-interest,  kindly,  human  instincts,  life  itself.  That 
woman  would  sacrifice  herself,  and  her  children,  as 
quietly  as  she  heard  the  death  of  her  husband,  rather  than 
grant  the  Germans  peace  without  victory  and  vengeance. 
How  can  there  be  any  peace,  whatever  treaty  is  signed? 
Can  Europe  ever  get  peace,  with  all  this  hatred  as  a 
heritage  ?" 


VI 

walked  silently  towards  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Liberte,  where  Brand's  little  crowd  had  established 
their  headquarters. 

"Perhaps  they're  right,"  he  said  presently.  "Perhaps 
the  hatred  is  divine.  ...  I  may  be  weakening,  because 
of  all  the  horror." 

Then  he  was  silent  again,  and  while  I  walked  by  his 
side  I  thought  back  to  his  career  as  I  had  known  it  in  the 
war,  rather  well.  He  had  always  been  tortured  by 
agonised  perplexities.  I  had  guessed  that  by  the  look 
of  the  man  and  some  of  his  odd  phrases,  and  his  rest- 
lessness and  foolhardiness.  It  was  in  the  trenches  by 
Fricourt  that  I  had  first  seen  him — long  before  the  battles 
of  the  Somme.  He  was  sitting  motionless  on  a  wooden 
box,  staring  through  a  periscope  towards  the  mine  craters 
and  the  Bois  Frangais  in  No  Man's  Land.  The  fine  hard- 
ness of  his  profile,  the  strength  of  his  jaw,  not  massive, 
but  with  one  clean  line  from  ear  to  chin,  and  something 
in  the  utter  intensity  of  his  attitude,  attracted  my  atten- 
tion, and  I  asked  the  Colonel  about  him. 

"Who  is  that  fellow — like  a  Norman  knight?" 

The  Colonel  of  the  King's  Royal  Rifles  laughed  as  we 
went  round  the  next  bay,  ducking  our  heads  where  the 
sandbags  had  slipped  down. 

"Further  back  than  Norman,"  he  said.  "He's  the 
primitive  man." 

He  told  me  that  Wickham  Brand — a  lieutenant  then — 
was  a  young  barrister  who  had  joined  the  battalion  at 

42 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  43 

the  beginning  of  '15.  He  had  taken  up  sniping  and  made 
himself  a  dead  shot.  He  had  the  hunter's  instinct  and 
would  wait  hours  behind  the  sandbags  for  the  sight  of  a 
German  head  in  the  trenches  opposite.  He  seldom  missed 
his  man,  or  that  part  of  his  body  which  showed  for  a 
second.  Lately  he  had  taken  to  the  habit  of  crawling  out 
into  No  Man's  Land  and  waiting  in  some  shell-hole  for 
the  dawn,  when  Germans  came  out  to  mend  their  wire  or 
drag  in  a  dead  body.  He  generally  left  another  dead  man 
as  a  bait  for  the  living.  Then  he  would  come  back  with 
a  grim  smile  and  eat  his  breakfast  wolfishly,  after  cutting 
a  notch  in  one  of  the  beams  of  his  dug-out. 

"He's  a  Hun-hater,  body  and  soul,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"We  want  more  of  'em.  All  the  same,  Brand  makes  me 
feel  queer  by  his  ferocity.  I  like  a  humourous  fellow  who 
does  his  killing  cheerfully." 

After  that  I  met  Brand  and  took  a  drink  with  him  in 
his  dug-out.  He  answered  my  remarks  gruffly  for  a 
time. 

"I  hear  you  go  in  for  sniping  a  good  deal,"  I  said,  by 
jvay  of  conversation. 

"Yes.    It's  murder  made  easy." 

"Do  you  get  many  targets?" 

"It's  a  waiting  game.    Sometimes  they  get  careless." 

He  puffed  at  a  black  old  pipe,  quite  silent  for  a  time. 
Presently  he  told  me  about  a  "young  'un"  who  popped  his 
head  over  the  parapet,  twice,  to  stare  at  something  on  the 
edge  of  the  mine-crater. 

"I  spared  him  twice.  The  third  time  I  said,  'Better 
dead,'  and  let  go  at  him.  The  kid  was  too  easy  to  miss." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  told  me  that  he 
hated  himself  for  that. 

"Rather  a  pity,"  I  mumbled. 

"War,"  he  said.     "Bloody  war." 

There  was  a  candle  burning  on  the  wooden  bench  on 


44.  WOUNDED  SOULS 

which  he  leaned  his  elbow,  and  by  the  light  of  it  I  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  There  was  a  haggard  look 
on  his  face. 

"It  must  need  some  nerve,"  I  said,  awkwardly,  "to 
go  out  so  often  in  No  Man's  Land.  Real  pluck." 

He  stared  at  me,  as  though  surprised,  and  then  laughed 
harshly. 

"Pluck  ?  What's  that  ?  I'm  scared  stiff,  half  the  time. 
Do  you  think  I  like  it?" 

He  seemed  to  get  angry,  was  angry,  I  think. 

"Do  any  of  us  like  it?  These  damn  things  that  blow 
men  to  bits,  make  rags  of  them,  tear  their  bowels  out, 
and  their  eyes?  Or  to  live  on  top  of  a  mine-crater,  as 
we  are  now,  never  knowing  when  you're  going  up  in 
smoke  and  flame?  If  you  like  that  sort  of  thing  yourself 
you  can  take  my  share.  I  have  never  met  a  man  who  did." 

Yet  when  Brand  was  taken  out  of  the  trenches — by  a 
word  spoken  over  the  telephone  from  corps  Headquar- 
ters— because  of  his  knowledge  of  German  and  his 
cousinship  to  a  lady  who  was  a  friend  of  the  Corps  Com- 
mander's niece,  he  was  miserable  and  savage.  I  met 
him  many  times  after  that  as  an  Intelligence  officer  at 
the  corps  cages,  examining  prisoners  on  days  of  battle. 

"An  embusque  job!"  he  said.  "I'm  saving  my  skin 
while  the  youngsters  die." 

He  stood  outside  his  hut  one  day  on  a  morning  of 
battle  in  the  Somme  fields — up  by  Pozieres.  No  prison- 
ers had  yet  come  down.  He  forgot  my  presence  and 
stood  listening  to  the  fury  of  gun-fire  and  watching  the 
smoke  and  flame  away  there  on  the  ridge. 

"Christ!"  he  cried.  "Why  am  I  here?  Why  aren't  I 
with  my  pals  up  there,  getting  blown  to  blood  and  pulp? 
Blood  and  pulp!  Blood  and  pulp!" 

Then  he  remembered  me,  and  turned  in  a  shamefaced 
way,  and  said,  "Sorry !  .  .  .  I  feel  rather  hipped  to-day." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  45 

I  was  present  sometimes  at  his  examination  of  prison- 
ers— those  poor  grey  muddy  wretches  who  come  dazed 
out  of  the  slime  and  shambles.  Sometimes  he  bullied 
them  harshly,  in  fluent  German,  and  they  trembled  at  his 
ferocity  of  speech,  even  whimpered  now  and  then.  But 
once  or  twice  he  was  in  quite  a  different  mood  with  them 
and  spoke  gently,  assenting  when  they  cursed  the  war 
and  its  misery  and  said  that  all  they  wanted  was  peace 
and  home  again. 

"Aren't  you  fellows  going  to  revolt?"  he  asked  one 
man — a  Feldwebel.  "Aren't  you  going  to  tell  your  war 
lords  to  go  to  Hell  and  stop  all  this  silly  massacre  before 
Germany  is  kaput f" 

The  German  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"We  would  if  we  could.  It  is  impossible.  Discipline 
is  too  strong  for  us.  It  has  enslaved  us." 

"That's  true,"  said  Brand.  "You  are  slaves  of  a 
system." 

He  spoke  a  strange  sentence  in  English  as  he  glanced 
over  to  me. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think  we  are  all  slaves  of  a  system. 
None  of  us  can  break  the  chains." 

It  was  after  that  day  that  Brand  took  a  fancy  to  me, 
for  some  reason,  inviting  me  to  his  mess,  where  I  met 
Charles  Fortune  and  others,  and  it  was  there  that  I  heard 
amazing  discussions  about  the  philosophy  of  war,  Ger- 
man psychology,  the  object  of  life,  the  relation  of  Chris- 
tianity to  war,  and  the  decadence  of  Europe.  Brand 
himself  sometimes  led  these  discussions,  with  a  savage 
humour  which  delighted  Charles  Fortune,  who  egged  him 
on.  He  was  always  pessimistic,  sceptical,  challenging, 
bitter,  and  now  and  then  so  violent  in  his  criticisms  of 
England,  the  Government,  the  Army  Council,  the  Staff, 
and  above  all  of  the  Press,  that  most  of  his  fellow- 


46  WOUNDED  SOULS 

officers — apart  from  Fortune — thought  he  went  "a  bit 
too  far." 

Dear  old  Harding,  who  was  Tory  to  the  backbone, 
with  a  deep  respect  for  all  in  authority,  accused  him  of 
being  a  "damned  revolutionary"  and  for  a  moment  it 
looked  as  though  there  would  be  hot  words,  until  Brand 
laughed  in  a  good-natured  way  and  said,  "My  dear  fel- 
low, I'm  only  talking  academic  rot.  I  haven't  a  convic- 
tion. Ever  since  the  war  began  I  have  been  trying  to 
make  head  or  tail  of  things  in  a  sea-fog  of  doubt.  All 
I  know  is  that  I  want  the  bloody  orgy  to  end ;  somehow 
and  anyhow." 

"With  victory,"  said  Harding  solemnly. 

"With  the  destruction  of  Prussian  philosophy  every- 
where," said  Brand. 

They  agreed  on  that,  but  I  could  see  that  Brand  was  on 
shifting  ground  and  I  knew,  as  our  friendship  deepened, 
that  he  was  getting  beyond  a  religion  of  mere  hate,  and 
was  looking  for  some  other  kind  of  faith.  Occasionally 
he  harked  back,  as  on  the  day  in  Lille  when  I  walked  by 
his  side. 


VII 

T  DINED  with  him  in  his  mess  that  evening,  before 
•*•  going  on  with  him  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  with 
Eileen  O'Connor,  who  had  a  room  in  some  convent  on 
the  outskirts  of  Lille.  The  advanced  headquarters  of 
this  little  group  of  officers  had  been  established  in  one 
of  those  big  private  houses  which  belong  to  the  rich 
manufacturers  and  business  people  of  Lille  (rich  before 
the  war,  but  with  desolate  factories  stripped  of  all  ma- 
chinery during  the  German  occupation,  and  afterwards), 
with  large,  heavily-furnished  rooms  built  round  a  court- 
yard and  barred  off  from  the  street  by  the  big  front  door. 
There  was  a  motor  lorry  inside  the  door,  which  was 
wide  open,  and  some  orderlies  were  unloading  camp- 
beds,  boxes  of  maps,  officers'  kit,  a  mahogany  gramo- 
phone, and  other  paraphernalia,  under  the  direction  of  a 
young  Cockney  sergeant  who  wanted  to  know  why  the 
blazes  they  didn't  look  slippy. 

"Don't  you  know  there's  a  war  on?"  he  asked  a  stolid 
old  soldier — one  of  the  heroes  of  Mons — who  was  sitting 
on  a  case  of  whiskey,  with  a  wistful  look,  as  though  re- 
flecting on  the  unfair  privileges  of  officers  with  so  much 
wealth  of  drink. 

"War's  all  right  if  you're  not  too  close  to  it,"  said  the 
Mons  hero.  "I've  seen  enough.  I've  done  my  bleeding 
bit  for  Kin  and  Country.  South  Africa,  Egypt " 

"Shut  your  jaw,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  'And  down  that 
blarsted  gramophone." 

"Ah !"  said  the  Mons  hero.  "We  didn't  'ave  no  blarsted 
gramophones  in  South  Africa.  This  is  a  different  kind  of 

47 


'48  WOUNDED  SOULS 

war.  More  comfort  about  it,  if  you're  not  in  the 
trenches." 

Wickham  Brand  took  me  through  the  courtyard  and 
mentioned  that  the  Colonel  had  come  up  from  St.  Omer. 

"Now  we're  sure  to  beat  the  Boche,"  he  said.  "Listen!" 

From  a  room  to  the  left  of  the  courtyard  came  the 
sound  of  a  flute  playing  one  of  Bach's  minuets,  very 
sweetly,  with  an  old-fashioned  grace. 

"A  wonderful  Army  of  ours!"  said  Brand.  "I  can't 
imagine  a  German  colonel  of  the  Staff  playing  seven- 
teenth-century music  on  a  bit  of  ivory,  while  the  enemy 
is  fighting  like  a  tiger  at  bay." 

"Perhaps  that's  our  strength,"  I  answered.  "Our 
amateurs  refuse  to  take  the  war  too  seriously.  I  know 
a  young  Gunner  Major  who  travels  a  banjo  in  his  limber, 
and  at  Cambrai  I  saw  fellows  playing  chuck-penny  within 
ten  yards  of  their  pals'  dead  bodies — a  pile  of  them." 

The  Colonel  saw  us  through  his  window  and  waved 
his  flute  at  us.  When  I  went  into  the  room,  after  a 
salute  at  the  doorway,  I  saw  that  he  had  already  littered 
it  with  artistic  untidiness — sheets  of  torn  music,  water- 
colour  sketches,  books  of  poetry,  and  an  array  of  splendid 
shining  boots;  of  which  a  pair  stood  on  the  mahogany 
sideboard. 

"A  beautiful  little  passage  this,"  said  Colonel  Laving- 
ton,  smiling  at  me  over  the  flute,  which  he  put  to  his  lips 
again.  He  played  a  bar  or  two  of  old-world  melody,  and 
said,  "Isn't  that  perfect?  Can't  you  see  the  little  ladies 
in  their  puffed  brocades  and  high-heeled  shoes !" 

He  had  his  faun-like  look,  his  clean-shaven  face  with 
long  nose  and  thin,  humorous  mouth,  lighted  up  by  his 
dark  smiling  eyes. 

"Not  a  bad  headquarters,"  he  said,  putting  down  the 
flute  again.  "If  we  can  only  stay  here  a  little  while, 
instead  of  having  to  jog  on  again.  There's  an  excellent 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  49 

piano  in  the  dining-room — German,  thank  goodness — r 
and  Charles  Fortune  and  I  can  really  get  down  to  some 
serious  music." 

"How's  the  war?"  I  asked. 

"War?"  he  said,  absent-mindedly.  "Oh,  yes,  the  war! 
That's  going  on  all  right.  They'll  be  out  of  Tournai  in 
a  few  days.  Perhaps  out  of  Maubeuge  and  Mons.  Oh, 
the  game's  up !  Very  soon  the  Intellectuals  will  be  look- 
ing round  for  a  living  in  dear  old  London.  My  goodness, 
some  of  us  will  find  peace  a  difficult  job!  I  can  see 
Boredom  approaching  with  its  colossal  shadow.  .  .  . 
After  all,  it  has  been  a  great  game,  on  the  whole." 

I  laughed,  but  something  stuck  in  my  throat.  Colonel 
Lavington  played  the  flute,  but  he  knew  his  job,  and  was 
in  touch  with  General  Headquarters  and  all  its  secret  in- 
formation. It  was  obvious  that  he  believed  the  war  was 
going  to  end — soon.  Soon,  O  Lord,  after  all  the  years 
of  massacre. 

I  blurted  out  a  straight  question. 

"Do  you  think  there's  a  real  chance  of  Peace?" 

The  Colonel  was  reading  a  piece  of  music,  humming 
it  with  a  la,  la,  la. 

"Another  month,  and  our  job's  done,"  he  said.  "Have 
you  heard  that  bit  of  Gluck  ?  It's  delicious." 

I  stayed  with  him  a  little  while  and  did  not  follow  a 
note  of  his  music.  I  was  excited  by  the  supreme  hope 
he  had  given  me.  So-there  was  to  be  an  end  of  massacre, 
and  my  own  hopes  had  not  been  false. 

At  the  mess  table  that  night,  Charles  Fortune  was  in 
good  form.  We  sat  in  a  room  which  was  rather  hand- 
somely furnished,  in  a  heavy  way,  with  big  bronzes  on  the 
mantelpiece  (ticketed  for  exemption  from  requisition  as 
family  heirlooms),  and  even  rather  good  portraits  of  a 
French  family — from  the  eighteenth  century  onwards — 
on  the  panelled  walls.  The  concierge  had  told  us  that 


50  WOUNDED  SOULS 

it  had  been  the  mess  of  a  German  headquarters  and  this 
gave  Fortune  his  cue,  and  he  entertained  us  with  some 
caricatures  of  German  generals  and  officers,  amazingly 
comic.  He  drank  his  soup  in  the  style  of  a  German 
general  and  ate  his  potato  pie  as  a  German  Intelligence 
officer  who  had  once  been  a  professor  of  psychology  at 
Heidelberg. 

The  little  American  doctor,  "Daddy"  Small  as  we 
called  him,  had  been  made  an  honorary  member  of  the 
mess,  and  he  smiled  at  Fortune  through  his  spectacles 
with  an  air  of  delighted  surprise  that  such  things  should 
be. 

"You  English,"  he  said  in  his  solemn  way,  "are  the 
most  baffling  people  in  the  world.  I  have  been  studying 
you  since  I  came  to  France,  and  all  my  preconceived 
ideas  have  been  knocked  on  the  head.  We  Americans 
think  you  are  a  hard,  arrogant,  selfish  people,  without 
humour  or  sympathy,  made  in  set  moulds,  turned  out 
as  types  from  your  University  and  public  schools.  That 
is  all  wrong.  I  am  beginning  to  see  that  you  are  more 
human,  more  various,  more  whimsical  than  any  race  in 
the  world.  You  decline  to  take  life  seriously.  You 
won't  take  even  death  seriously.  This  war — you  make 
a  joke  of  it.  The  Germans — you  kill  them  in  great  num- 
bers, but  you  have  a  secret  liking  for  them.  Fortune's 
caricatures  are  very  comical — but  not  unkind.  I  believe 
Fortune  is  a  pro-German.  You  cannot  laugh  at  the  peo- 
ple you  hate.  I  believe  England  will  forgive  Germany 
quicker  than  any  other  nation — far  quicker  than  the 
Americans.  France,  of  course,  will  never  forgive." 

"No,"  said  Pierre  Nesle,  who  was  at  the  end  of  the 
table.  "France  will  never  forgive." 

"We  are  an  illogical  people,"  said  the  Colonel.  "It  is 
only  logical  people  who  can  go  on  hating.  Besides,  Ger- 
man music  is  so  good !  So  good !" 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  51 

Harding',  who  read  no  paper  but  the  Morning  Post, 
said  that  as  far  as  he  was  concerned  he  would  never 
speak  to  a  German  again  in  his  life.  He  would  like  to 
see  the  whole  race  exterminated.  But  he  was  afraid  of 
the  Socialists  with  their  pestilential  doctrine  of  "brother- 
hood of  man."  Lloyd  George  also  filled  him  with  the 
gravest  misgivings. 

Dr.  Small's  eyes  twinkled  at  him. 

"There  is  the  old  caste  that  speaks.  Tradition  against 
the  new  world  of  ideas.  Of  course  there  will  always  be 
that  conflict.  .  .  .  That  is  a  wonderful  phrase,  'the  pes- 
tilential doctrine  of  the  brotherhood  of  man.'  I  must 
make  a  note  of  it." 

"Shame  on  you,  Doctor,"  said  Fortune.  "You  are 
always  jotting  down  notes  about  us.  I  shall  find  myself 
docketed  as  'English  gentleman  grade  3 ;  full-blooded,  in- 
clined to  obesity,  humourous,  strain  of  insanity  due  to 
in-breeding,  rare.' ' 

Dr.  Small  laughed  in  a  high  treble,  and  then  was 
serious. 

"I'm  noting  down  everything.  My  own  psychology, 
which  alarms  me ;  facts,  anecdotes,  scenes,  words.  I  want 
to  find  a  law  somewhere,  the  essential  thing  in  human 
nature.  After  the  war — if  there  is  any  afterwards — I 
want  to  search  for  a  way  out  of  the  jungle.  This  jungle 
civilisation.  There  must  be  daylight  somewhere  for  the 
human  race." 

"If  you  find  it,"  said  Brand,  earnestly,  "tell  me,  Doc- 
tor." 

"I  will,"  said  Dr.  Small,  and  I  remembered  that  pledge 
afterwards,  when  he  and  Brand  were  together  in  a 
doomed  city,  trying  to  avert  the  doom,  because  of  that 
impulse  which  urged  them  to  find  a  little  daylight  beyond 
the  darkness. 

Young  Clatworthy  jerked  his  chair  on  the  polished 


52  WOUNDED  SOULS 

boards  and  looked  anxiously  at  the  Colonel,  who  wal 
discoursing  on  the  origins  of  art,  religion,  sex,  the  per- 
ception of  form. 

Colonel  Lavington  grinned  at  him. 

"All  right,  Cyril.  I  know  you  have  got  a  rendezvous 
with  some  girl.  Don't  let  us  keep  you  from  your  career 
of  infamy." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  sir,  I  met  a  sweet  little  thing 

yesterday "  Clatworthy  knew  that  his  reputation  as 

an  amorist  did  not  displease  the  Colonel,  who  was  a 
romantic,  and  loved  youth. 

In  a  gust  of  laughter  the  mess  broke  up.  Charles  For- 
tune and  the  Colonel  prepared  for  an  orgy  of  Bach  over 
the  piano  in  the  drawing-room  of  that  house  in  Lille. 
Those  who  cared  to  listen  might — or  not,  as  they  pleased. 
Brand  and  I  went  out  into  the  streets,  pitch-dark  now, 
unlit  by  any  glimmer  of  gas,  and  made  our  way  to  the 
convent  where  the  girl  Eileen  O'Connor  lodged.  We 
passed  a  number  of  British  soldiers  in  the  Boulevard  de 
la  Liberte,  wearing  their  steel  hats  and  carrying  their 
packs. 

A  group  of  them  stopped  under  a  doorway  to  light 
cigarettes.  One  of  them  spoke  to  his  pals. 

"They  tell  me  there's  some  bonny  wenches  in  this 
town." 

"Ay,"  said  another,  "an*  I  could  do  wi'  some  hugging 
in  a  cosy  billet." 

"Cosy  billet!"  said  the  third,  with  a  cockney  voice. 
"Town  or  trenches,  the  poor  bloody  soldier  gets  it  in 
the  neck.  Curse  this  pack !  I'm  fed  up  with  the  whole 
damn  show.  I  want  Peace." 

A  hoarse  laugh  answered  him. 

"Peace!  You  don't  believe  that  fool's  talk  in  the 
papers,  dium?  It's  a  hell  of  a  long  way  to  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  63 

Rhine,  and  you  and  I'll  be  dead  before  we  get  there." 
They  slouched  off  into  the  darkness,  three  points  of 

light  where  their  cigarettes  glowed. 
"Poor  lads !"  said  Brand. 


VIII 

"1T7TE  fumbled  our  way  to  a  street  on  the  edge  of  the 
»  •  canal,  according  to  Brand's  uncanny  sense  of; 
direction  and  his  remembrance  of  what  the  Irish  girl  had 
told  him.  There  we  found  the  convent,  a  square  box-like 
building  behind  big  gates.  We  pulled  a  bell  which  jangled 
loudly,  and  presently  the  gate  opened  an  inch,  letting 
through  the  light  of  a  lantern  which  revealed  the  black- 
and-white  coif  of  a  nun. 

"Qui  va  la?" 

Brand  told  her  that  we  had  come  to  see  Miss  O'Con- 
nor, and  the  gate  was  opened  wider  and  we  went  into  the 
courtyard,  where  a  young  nun  stood  smiling.  She  spoke 
in  English. 

"We  were  always  frightened  when  the  bell  rang  during 
the  German  occupation.  One  never  knev/  what  might 
happen.  And  we  were  afraid  for  Miss  O'Connor's  sake." 

"Why?"  asked  Brand. 

The  little  nun  laughed. 

"She  did  dangerous  work.  They  suspected  her.  She 
came  here  after  her  arrest.  Before  then  she  had  rooms 
of  her  own.  Oh,  messieurs,  her  courage,  her  devotion! 
Truly  she  was  heroic!" 

She  led  us  into  a  long  corridor  with  doors  on  each 
side,  and  out  of  one  door  came  a  little  group  of  nuns 
with  Eileen  O'Connor. 

The  Irish  girl  came  towards  us  with  outstretched  hands 
which  she  gave  first  to  Brand.  She  seemed  excited  at 
our  coming  and  explained  that  the  Reverend  Mother 

54 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  55 

and  all  the  nuns  wanted  to  see  us,  to  thank  England  by 
means  of  us,  to  hear  something  about  the  war  and  the 
chance  of  victory  from  the  first  English  officers  they 
had  seen. 

Brand  was  presented  to  the  Reverend  Mother,  a  mas- 
sive old  lady  with  a  slight  moustache  on  the  upper  lip 
and  dark  luminous  eyes,  reminding  me  of  the  portrait 
of  Savonarola  at  Florence.  The  other  nuns  crowded 
round  us,  eager  to  ask  questions,  still  more  eager  to  talk. 
Some  of  them  were  quite  young  and  pretty,  though  all 
rather  white  and  fragile,  and  they  had  a  vivacious  gaiety, 
so  that  the  building  resounded  with  laughter.  It  was 
Eileen  O'Connor  who  made  them  laugh  by  her  remi- 
niscences of  girlhood  when  she  and  Brand  were  "enfants 
terribles,"  when  she  used  to  pull  Brand's  hair  and  hide 
the  pipe  he  smoked  too  soon.  She  asked  him  to  take  off 
his  field-cap  so  that  she  might  see  whether  the  same  old 
unruly  tuft  still  stuck  up  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  she 
and  all  the  nuns  clapped  hands  when  she  found  it  was  so, 
in  spite  of  war-worry  and  steel  hats.  All  this  had  to  be 
translated  into  French  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  could 
not  understand  such  rapid  English. 

"I  believe  you  would  like  to  give  it  a  tug  now,"  said 
Brand,  bending  his  head  down,  and  Eileen  O'Connor- 
agreed. 

"And  indeed  I  would,  but  for  scandalising  a  whole 
community  of  nuns,  to  say  nothing  of  Reverend  Mother." 

The  Reverend  Mother  laughed  in  a  curiously  deep 
voice,  and  a  crowd  of  little  wrinkles  puckered  at  her 
eyes.  She  told  Miss  O'Connor  that  even  her  Irish  au- 
dacity would  not  go  as  far  as  that,  which  was  a  challenge 
accepted  on  the  instant. 

"One  little  tug,  for  old  times'  sake,"  said  the  girl,  and 
Brand  yelped  with  pretended  pain  at  the  vigour  of  her 
pull,  while  all  the  nuns  screamed  with  delight. 


166  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Then  a  clock  struck  and  the  Reverend  Mother  touched 
Eileen  (as  afterwards  I  called  her)  on  the  arm  and  said 
she  would  leave  her  with  her  friends.  One  by  one  the 
nuns  bowed  to  us,  all  smiling  under  their  white  bandeaux, 
and  then  went  down  the  corridor  through  an  open  door 
which  led  into  a  chapel,  as  we  could  see  by  twinkling 
candlelight  Presently  the  music  of  an  organ  and  of 
women's  voices  came  through  the  closed  doors. 

Eileen  O'Connor  took  us  into  a, little  parlour  where 
there  were  just  four  rush-chairs  and  a  table,  and  on  the 
clean  whitewashed  walls  a  crucifix. 

Brand  took  a  chair  by  the  table,  rather  awkwardly,  I 
thought. 

"How  gay  they  are!"  he  said.  "They  do  not  seem  to 
have  been  touched  by  the  horrors  of  war." 

"It  is  the  gaiety  of  faith,"  said  Eileen.  "How  else 
could  they  have  survived  the  work  they  have  done,  the 
things  they  have  seen?  This  convent  was  a  shambles 
for  more  than  three  years.  These  rooms  were  filled  with 
wounded,  German  wounded,  and  often  English  wounded, 
who  were  prisoners.  They  were  the  worst  cases  for 
amputation,  and  butcher's  work,  and  the  nuns  did  all 
the  nursing.  They  know  all  there  is  to  know  of  suffering 
and  death." 

"Yet  they  have  not  forgotten  how  to  laugh!"  said 
Brand.  "That  is  wonderful.  It  is  a  mystery  to  me." 

"You  must  have  seen  bad  things,"  said  Eileen.  "Have 
you  lost  the  gift  of  laughter?" 

"Almost,"  said  Brand,  "and  once  for  a  long  time." 

Eileen  put  her  hands  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  learn  it  again,"  she  said.  "If  we  cannot  laugh 
we  cannot  work.  Why,  I  owe  my  life  to  a  sense  of 
humour." 

She  spoke  the  last  words  with  more  than  a  trivial 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE          5* 

meaning.  They  seemed  to  tell  of  some  singular  episode, 
and  Brand  asked  her  to  explain. 

She  did  not  explain  then.  She  only  said  some  vague 
things  about  laughing  herself  out  of  prison  and  stopping 
a  German  bullet  with  a  smile. 

"Why  did  the  devils  put  you  in  prison?"  asked  Brand. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"In  Lille  it  was  bad  form  if  one  had  not  been  arrested 
once  at  least.  I  was  three  weeks  in  a  cell  half  the  size 
of  this,  and  twenty  women  were  with  me  there.  There 
was  very  little  elbow-room!" 

She  proved  her  sense  of  humour  then  by  that  deep- 
throated  laugh  of  hers,  but  I  noticed  that  just  for  a 
second  behind  the  smile  in  her  eyes  there  crept  a  shadow 
as  at  the  remembrance  of  some  horror,  and  that  she 
shivered  a  little,  as  though  some  coldness  had  touched  her. 

"It  must  have  been  like  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta," 
said  Brand,  measuring  the  space  with  his  eyes.  "Twenty 
women  herded  in  a  room  like  that !" 

"With  me  for  twenty-one,"  said  Eileen.  "We  had  no 
means  of  washing." 

She  used  an  awful  phrase. 

"We  were  a  living  stench." 

"Good  God!"  said  Brand. 

Eileen  O'Connor  waved  back  the  remembrance.  "Tell 
me  of  England  and  of  Ireland.  How's  the  little  green 
isle?  Has  it  done  well  in  the  war?" 

"The  Irish  troops  fought  like  heroes,"  said  Brand. 
"But  there  were  not  enough  of  them.  Recruiting  was 
slow,  and  there  was — some  trouble." 

He  did  not  speak  about  the  Irish  Rebellion. 

"I  heard  about  it  vaguely,  from  prisoners,"  said  the 
girl.  "It  was  England's  fault,  I  expect.  Dear  old  blun- 
dering, muddle-headed  England,  who  is  a  tyrant  through 
fear,  and  twists  Irish  loyalty  into  treason  by  ropes  of 


58  WOUNDED  SOULS 

red-tape  in  which  the  Irish  mind  gets  strangled  and  awry. 
Well,  there's  another  subject  to  avoid.  I  want  to  hear 
only  good  things  to-night.  Tell  me  of  London,  of  Ken- 
sington Gardens,  of  the  way  from  the  Strand  to  Temple 
Bar,  of  the  lights  that  gleam  along  the  Embankment 
when  lovers  go  hand-in-hand  and  see  stars  in  the  old 
black  river.  Are  they  all  there  ?" 

"They  are  all  changed,"  said  Brand.  "It  is  a  place  of 
gloom.  There  are  no  lights  along  the  Embankment. 
They  have  dowsed  their  glims  for  fear  of  air-raids. 
There  are  few  lovers  hand-in-hand.  Some  of  the  boys 
lie  dead  round  Ypres,  or  somewhere  on  the  Somme,  or 
weep  out  of  blind  eyes,  or  gibber  in  shell-shock  homes, 
or  try  to  hop  on  one  leg — while  waiting  for  artificial 
limbs, — or  trudge  on,  to-night,  towards  Maubeuge,  where 
German  machine-guns  wait  for  them  behind  the  ditches. 
Along  the  Strand  goes  the  Painted  Flapper,  luring  men 
to  hell.  In  Kensington  Gardens  there  are  training  camps 
for  more  boys  ear-marked  for  the  shambles,  and  here  and 
there  among  the  trees  young  mothers  who  are  widows  be- 
fore they  knew  their  wifehood.  There  is  vice,  the  gaiety 
of  madness,  the  unspeakable  callousness  of  people  who 
get  rich  on  war,  or  earn  fat  wages,  and  in  small  stricken 
homes  a  world  of  secret  grief.  That  is  London  in  time  of; 
war.  I  hate  it." 

Brand  spoke  with  bitterness  and  a  melancholy  that 
startled  the  girl  who  sat  with  folded  hands  below  the  cru- 
cifix on  the  whitewashed  wall  behind  her. 

"Dear  God!    Is  it  like  that?" 

She  stared  at  the  wall  opposite  as  though  it  were  a 
window  through  which  she  saw  London. 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is  like  that.  Here  in  Lille  we 
thought  we  were  suffering  more  than  anybody  in  the 
world.  That  was  our  egotism.  We  did  not  realise — not 
in  our  souls — that  everywhere  in  the  world  of  war  there 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  59 

was  equal  suffering,  the  same  cruelty,  perhaps  the  same 
temptation  to  despair." 

Brand  repented,  I  think,  of  having  led  the  conversa- 
tion into  such  abysmal  gloom.  He  switched  off  to  more 
cheerful  things  and  gave  some  elaborate  sketches  of  sol- 
diers he  knew,  to  which  Eileen  played  up  with  anecdotes 
of  rare  comedy  about  the  nuns — the  fat  nun  who  under 
the  rigour  of  war  rations  became  as  slim  as  a  willow  and 
was  vain  of  her  new  grace ;  the  little  French  nun  who  had 
no  fear  of  German  officers  and  dared  their  fury  by 
prophecies  of  defeat — but  was  terrified  of  a  mouse  in 
the  refectory;  the  Reverend  Mother,  who  borrowed  a 
safety-razor  from  an  English  Tommy — he  had  hidden  it 
in  his  shirt — to  shave  her  upper  lip,  lest  the  Germans 
should  think  her  a  French  poilu  in  disguise. 

More  interesting  to  me  than  anything1  that  was  said 
were  the  things  unspoken  by  Eileen  and  Brand.  In  spite 
of  the  girl's  easy  way  of  laughter,  her  quick  wit,  her 
avoidance,  if  possible,  of  any  reference  to  her  own  suffer- 
ing, I  seemed  to  see  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  face  the 
strain  of  a  long  ordeal,  some  frightful  adventure  of  life 
in  which  she  had  taken  great  hazards — the  people  had 
told  me  she  had  risked  her  life,  often — and  a  woman's 
courage  which  had  been  tested  by  that  experience  and 
had  not  failed,  though  perhaps  at  breaking-point  in  the 
worst  hours.  I  supposed  her  age  was  twenty-six  or  so 
(I  guessed  it  right  this  side  of  a  year),  but  there  was 
already  a  streak  of  grey  in  her  dark  hair,  and  her  eyes, 
so  smiling  as  a  rule,  looked  as  if  they  had  often  wept. 
I  think  the  presence  of  Brand  was  a  great  pleasure  to 
her — bringing  to  Lille  a  link  with  her  childhood — and  I 
saw  that  she  was  studying  the  personality  of  this  newly- 
found  friend  of  hers,  and  the  strong  character  of  his 
face,  not  unscathed  by  the  touch  of  war,  with  curious, 
penetrating  interest.  I  felt  in  the  way,  and  left  them 


60  WOUNDED  SOULS 

together  with  a  fair  excuse — I  had  always  work:  to  c 
and  I  was  pleased  that  I  did  so,  they  were  so  obviously 
glad  to  have  a  more  intimate  talk  about  old  friends,  and 
old  times. 


IX 

T  GAINED  by  my  unselfishness  (I  did  not  want  to 
•*-  go) ,  for  the  Reverend  Mother  met  me  in  the  corridor 
and  stood  talking  to  me  about  Eileen  O'Connor,  and  told 
me  part  of  the  girl's  story,  which  I  found  strange  in  its 
drama,  though  she  left  out  the  scene  of  greatest  interest, 
as  I  heard  later  from  Eileen  herself. 

The  girl  had  come  to  Lille  just  before  the  war,  as  an 
art-mistress  in  an  "Ecole  de  Jeunes  Filles"  (her  parents 
in  Kensington  had  too  big  a  family  to  keep  them  all), 
with  lessons  twice  a  week  at  the  convent,  and  private 
pupils  in  her  own  rooms.  She  learned  to  speak  French 
quickly  and  charmingly,  and  her  gift  of  humour,  her 
Irish  frankness  and  comradeship  made  her  popular 
among  her  pupils,  so  that  she  had  many  invitations  to 
their  homes  and  became  well  known  in  the  best  houses 
of  Lille — mostly  belonging  to  rich  manufacturers.  A 
commonplace  story  till  then!  But  when  the  Germans 
occupied  Lille  this  Irish  girl  became  one  of  the  chief 
characters  in  a  drama  that  was  exciting  and  fantastic  to 
the  point  of  melodrama.  It  was  she  who  organised  the 
Lille  branch  of  a  secret  society  of  women,  with  a  net- 
work all  over  northern  France  and  Belgium — the  world 
remembers  Nurse  Cavell  at  Brussels — for  the  escape  of 
young  civilians  of  military  age  and  prisoners  of  war, 
combining  that  work  (frightfully  perilous)  with  espion- 
age on  German  movements  of  troops  and  knowledge  that 
might  be  of  value  to  the  Belgian  Army,  and  through  them 
to  England  and  France.  It  was  out  of  an  old  book  of 

61 


62  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Jules  Verne  called  "The  Cryptogram"  that  she  copied  the 
cypher  in  which  she  wrote  her  messages  (in  invisible 
ink  on  linen  handkerchiefs  and  rags),  and  she  had  an 
audacity  of  invention  in  numberless  small  tricks  and  plots 
which  constantly  broke  through  the  meshes  of  the  Ger- 
man network  of  military  police. 

"She  had  a  contempt  for  their  stupidity,"  said  the 
Reverend  Mother.  "Called  them  dunderheads,  and  one 
strange  word  of  which  I  do  not  know  the  meaning — 
'yobs' — and  I  trembled  at  the  risks  she  took." 

She  lived  with  one  maid  in  two  rooms  on  the  ground 
floor  of  a  house  near  the  Jardin  d'Ete,  the  rest  of  the 
house  being  used  as  the  headquarters  of  the  German  In- 
telligence Section  of  the  Northern  District.  All  day  long 
officers  went  in  and  out,  and  by  day  and  night  there  were 
always  sentries  at  the  door.  Yet  it  was  there  that  was 
established  also  the  headquarters  of  the  Rescue  Commit- 
tee. It  was  on  account  of  her  Irish  name  and  parentage 
that  Eileen  O'Connor  was  permitted  to  remain  in  the 
two  rooms  to  the  left  of  the  courtyard,  entered  by  a 
separate  door.  The  German  Kommandant  was  a  man 
who  firmly  believed  that  the  Irish  nation  was  ready  to 
break  out  into  revolt  against  the  English,  and  that  all 
Irish — men  and  women — hated  the  British  Empire  as 
much  as  any  Prussian.  Eileen  O'Connor  played  up  to 
this  idee  fixe,  saw  the  value  of  it  as  a  wonderful  means 
of  camouflage,  lent  the  Kommandant  books  on  Irish  his- 
tory dealing  with  the  injustice  of  England  to  Ireland  (in 
which  she  firmly  believed  as  a  staunch  Nationalist),  and 
educated  him  so  completely  to  the  belief  that  she  was  anti- 
English  (as  she  was  in  politics,  though  not  in  war)  that 
he  had  no  doubt  of  her. 

Here  the  Reverend  Mother  made  a  remark  which 
seemed  to  illuminate  Eileen  O'Connor's  story,  as  well  as 
her  own  knowledge  of  human  nature. 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  63 

"The  child  has  beautiful  eyes  and  a  most  sweet  grace. 
Irish  history  may  not  account  for  all." 

"This  German  Kommandant "  I  asked,  "what  sort 

of  a  man  was  he?" 

"For  a  German  not  altogether  bad,"  said  the  Reverend 
Mother.  "Severe  and  ruthless,  like  them  all,  but  polite 
when  there  was  no  occasion  to  be  violent.  He  was  of 
good  family,  as  far  as  there  are  such  things  in  Germany. 
A  man  of  sixty." 

Eileen  O'Connor,  with  German  permission,  continued 
her  work  as  art-mistress  at  the  £cole  de  Jeunes  Filles. 
After  six  months  she  was  permitted  to  receive  private 
pupils  in  her  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  In- 
telligence headquarters,  in  the  same  courtyard  though 
not  in  the  same  building.  Her  pupils  came  with  draw- 
ing-boards and  paint-boxes.  They  were  all  girls  with 
pig-tails  and  short  frocks — not  so  young  as  they  looked, 
because  three  or  four  at  least,  including  the  Baronne  de 
Villers-Auxicourt,  were  older  than  schoolgirls.  They 
played  the  part  perfectly,  and  the  sentries  smiled  at  them 
and  said  "Guten  Tag,  sch-ones  Fraulein,"  as  each  one 
passed.  They  were  the  committee  of  the  Rescue  Society: 

Julienne  de  Quesnoy, 

Marcelle  Barbier, 

Yvonne  Marigny, 

Marguerite  Clery, 
and  Alice  de  Taffin,  de  Villers-Auxicourf. 

Eileen  O'Connor  was  the  director  and  leading1  spirit 
It  seems  to  me  astonishing  that  they  should'  have  ar- 
ranged the  cypher,  practised  it,  written  down  military  in- 
formation gathered  from  German  conversations  and  re- 
ported to  them  by  servants  and  agents  under  the  very 
noses  of  the  German  Intelligence  officers,  who  could  see 
into  the  sitting-room  as  they  passed  through  French  win- 
dows and  saluted  Eileen  O'Connor  and  her  young  ladies; 


64  WOUNDED  SOULS 

if  they  happened  to  meet  their  eyes.  It  is  more  astonish- 
ing that,  at  different  times,  and  one  at  a  time,  many  fugi- 
tives (including  five  British  soldiers  who  had  escaped 
from  the  citadel)  slept  in  the  cellar  beneath  that  room, 
changed  into  German  uniforms  belonging  to  men  who 
had  died  at  the  convent  hospital — the  Reverend  Mother 
did  that  part  of  the  plot — and  walked  quietly  out  in  the 
morning  by  an  underground  passage  leading  to  the  Jardin 
d'Ete.  The  passage  had  been  anciently  built  but  was 
blocked  up  at  one  end  by  Eileen  O'Connor's  cellar,  and 
she  and  the  other  women  broke  the  wall,  one  brick  at  a 
time,  until  after  three  months  the  hole  was  made.  Their 
finger-nails  suffered  in  the  process,  and  they  were  afraid 
that  the  roughness  of  their  hands  might  be  noticed  by  the 
officers,  but  in  spite  of  German  spectacles  they  saw  noth- 
ing of  that.  Eileen  O'Connor  and  her  friends  were  in 
constant  touch  with  the  prisoners  of  the  Citadel  and 
smuggled  food  to  them.  That  was  easy.  It  was  done 
by  bribing  the  German  sentries  with  tobacco  and  meat- 
pies.  They  were  also  in  communication  with  other 
branches  of  the  work  in  Belgium,  so  that  fugitives  were 
passed  on  from  town  to  town,  and  house  to  house.  Their 
success  made  them  confident,  after  many  horrible  fears, 
and  for  a  time  they  were  lulled  into  a  sense  of  security. 
That  was  rudely  crashed  when  Eileen  O'Connor,  the 
young  Baronne  de  Villers-Auxicourt,  and  Marcelle  Bar- 
bier  were  arrested  one  morning  in  September  of  '17,  on 
a  charge  of  espionage.  They  were  put  into  separate  cells 
of  the  civil  prison,  crowded  with  the  vilest  women  of  the 
slums  and  stews,  and  suffered  something  like  torture  be- 
cause of  the  foul  atmosphere,  the  lack  of  sanitation,  and 
unspeakable  abomination. 

"Only  the  spirit  of  Christian  martyrdom  could  remain 
cheerful  in  such  terrible  conditions,"  said  the  Reverend 
Mother.  "Our  dear  Eileen  was  sustained  by  a  great 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  65 

rfaith  and  wonderful  gaiety.  Her  laughter,  her  jokes, 
her  patience,  her  courage,  were  an  inspiration  even  to 
the  poor  degraded  women  who  were  prisoners  with  hen 
They  worshipped  her.  We,  her  friends,  gave  her  up  foij 
lost,  though  we  prayed  unceasingly  that  she  might  escape 
death.  Then  she  was  brought  to  trial." 

She  stood  alone  in  the  court.  The  young1  Baronne  dej 
[Villers-Auxicourt  had  died  in  prison  owing  to  the  shock 
;of  her  arrest  and  a  weak  heart.  A  weak  heart,  though 
so  brave.  Eileen  was  not  allowed  to  see  her  on  her  death- 
bed, but  she  sent  a  message  almost  with  her  last  breath. 
It  was  the  one  word  "courage!"  Mile.  Marcelle  Barbier 
was  released  before  the  trial,  for  lack  of  direct  evidence.; 

Eileen's  trial  was  famous  in  Lille.  The  court  was 
•crowded  and  the  German  military  tribunal  could  not  sup- 
press the  loud  expressions  of  sympathy  and  admiration 
which  greeted  her,  nor  the  angry  murmurs  which  in-» 
terrupted  the  prosecuting  officer.  She  stood  there,  won- 
derfully calm,  between  two  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets. 
She  looked  very  young  and  innocent  between  her  guards, 
and  it  is  evident  that  her  appearance  made  a  favourable 
impression  on  the  court.  The  President,  after  peering] 
at  her  through  his  horn  spectacles,  was  not  so  ferocious 
in  his  manner  as  usual  when  he  bade  her  be  seated. 

The  evidence  seemed  very  strong  against  her.  "She  is 
lost"  was  the  belief  of  all  her  friends  in  court.  One  of 
the  sentries  at  the  Citadel,  jealously  savage  because  an- 
other man  had  received  more  tobacco  than  himself — on 
such  a  trivial  thing  did  this  girl's  life  hang! — betrayed 
the  system  by  which  the  women's  committee  sent  food 
to  the  French  and  English  prisoners.  He  gave  the  names! 
of  three  of  the  ladies  and  described  Eileen  O'Connor  as! 
the  ringleader.  The  secret  police  watched  her,  and 
searched  her  rooms  at  night.  They  discovered  the  cypher 
and  the  key,  a  list  of  men  who  had  escaped,  and  three 


66  WOUNDED  SOULS 

German  uniforms  in  a  secret  cupboard.  They  had  been 
aided  in  their  search  by  Lieutenant  Franz  von  Kreuz- 
fenach  of  the  Intelligence  Bureau,  who  was  the  chief  wit- 
ness of  the  prosecution,  and  whose  name  was  recom- 
mended to  the  Court  for  the  vigilance  and  zeal  he  had 
shown  in  the  detection  of  the  conspiracy  against  the 
Army  and  the  Fatherland.  It  was  he  who  had  found  the 
secret  cupboard  and  had  solved  the  key  to  the  cypher. 

"We  will  take  the  lieutenant's  evidence  in  due  course," 
said  the  President.  "Does  that  complete  the  indictment 
against  this  prisoner?" 

Apart  from  a  savage  elaboration  of  evidence  based 
upon  the  facts  presented  and  a  demand  that  the  woman's 
guilt,  if  the  Court  were  satisfied  thereon,  should  be  pun- 
ished by  death,  the  preliminary  indictment  by  the  prose- 
cution ended. 

It  was  a  terrible  case,  and  during  its  revelations  the 
people  in  court  were  stricken  with  dread  and  pity  for 
the  girl  who  was  now  sitting  between  the  two  soldiers. 
They  were  all  staring  at  her,  and  some  at  least — the 
Reverend  Mother  among  them — noticed  with  surprise 
that  when  the  officer  for  the  prosecution  ended  his  speech 
she  drew  a  deep  breath,  raised  her  head,  as  though  some 
weight  of  fear  had  been  lifted  from  her,  and — laughed. 

It  was  quite  a  merry  laugh,  with  that  full  blackbird 
note  of  hers,  and  the  sound  of  it  caused  a  strange  sensa- 
tion in  the  court.  The  President  blinked  repeatedly,  like 
an  owl  blinded  by  a  ray  of  sunlight.  He  addressed  the 
prisoner  in  heavy,  barbarous  French. 

"You  are  charged  with  conspiracy  against  our  German 
martial  law.  The  punishment  is  death.  It  is  no  laughing 
matter,  Fraulein." 

They  were  stern  words,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  pity; 
in  that  last  sentence. 

"Ce  riest  pas  une  affaire  pour  tire,  Fraulein." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE          67 

Eileen  O'Connor,  said  the  Reverend  Mother,  who  was 
to  be  called  as  a  witness  on  her  behalf,  bowed  in  a  gra- 
cious way  to  the  President,  but  with  a  look  of  amusement 
that  was  amazing  to  the  German  officers  assembled  for 
her  trial.  Some  of  them  scowled,  but  there  were  others, 
the  younger  men,  who  whispered,  and  smiled  also  with 
no  attempt  to  disguise  their  admiration  of  such  courage. 

"Perhaps  it  was  only  I,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother, 
"who  understood  the  child's  joyous  relief  which  gave 
her  this  courage.  I  had  waited  with  terrible  dread  for 
the  announcement  of  the  discovery  of  the  secret  passage. 
That  it  had  been  discovered  I  knew,  for  the  German 
lieutenant,  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  had  come  round  to  me 
and  very  sternly  questioned  me  about  a  case  of  medicine 
which  he  had  found  there,  stamped  with  the  name  of 
our  convent." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "this  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  must  have 
suppressed  some  of  the  evidence.  By  what  motive -" 

The  Reverend  Mother  interrupted  me,  putting  her  hand 
on  my  sleeve  with  a  touch  of  protest. 

"The  good  God  works  through  strange  instruments, 
and  may  touch  the  hardest  heart  with  His  grace.  It  was 
indeed  a  miracle." 

I  would  give  much  to  have  been  in  that  court  at  Lille 
when  Eileen  O'Connor  was  permitted  to  question  the 
German  lieutenant  who  was  the  chief  witness  against  her. 

From  what  I  have  heard,  not  only  from  the  Reverend 
Mother,  but  from  other  people  of  Lille  who  were  present 
at  the  trial,  she  played  with  this  German  officer,  making 
him  look  very  foolish,  ridiculing  him  in  a  merry,  con- 
temptuous way  before  the  Court.  Indeed  he  seemed 
strangely  abashed  before  her. 

"The  cypher!  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  been  a  schoolboy, 
or  were  you  born  a  lieutenant  in  the  German  Army?" 


68  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  admitted  that  he  had  once  been 
a  boy — to  the  amusement  of  his  brother-officers. 

Had  he  ever  read  stories  of  adventure,  fairy-tales,  ro- 
mances,  or  did  he  spend  his  childhood  in  the  study  of 
Nietzsche,  Hegel,  Schopenhauer,  Kant,  Goethe,  von 
Bernhardi,  Karl  Marx 

When  she  strung  off  these  names — so  incongruous  in 
association — even  the  President  permitted  a  slight  smile 
to  twist  his  thin  hard  mouth. 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  said  that  he  had  read  some 
fairy-tales  and  stories  of  adventure.  Might  he  ask  the 
gnadiges  Fraulein 

"Yes,"  said  the  President,  "what  has  this  to  do  withi 
your  case,  Fraulein?  I  desire  to  give  you  full  liberty 
in  your  defence  but  this  is  entirely  irrelevant  to  the  evi- 
dence." 

"It  is  my  case!"  cried  Miss  O'Connor.  "Listen  to  the 
next  question,  Herr  President.  It  is  the  key  of  my  de- 
fence." 

Her  next  question  caused  laughter  in  court. 

"I  ask  the  Herr  Lieutenant  whether,  as  a  boy,  or  a 
young  man,  he  has  read  the  romances  of  the  French 
writer,  Jules  Verne?" 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  looked  abashed,  and  blushed 
like  a  schoolboy.  His  eyes  fell  before  the  challenging 
look  of  the  Irish  girl. 

"I  have  read  some  novels  by  Jules  Verne,  in  German 
translations." 

"Oh,  in  German  translations — of  course!"  said  Miss 
O'Connor.  "German  :boys  do  not  learn  French  very 
well." 

"Keep  to  the  case,"  said  the  President.  "In  Heaven's 
name,  Fraulein,  what  has  this  to  do  with  your  defence?" 

She  raised  her  hand,  for  patience,  and  said,  "Herr 
President,  my  innocence  will  soon  be  clear." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  69 

She  demanded  of  the  witness  for  the  prosecution 
whether  he  had  ever  read  the  novel  by  Jules  Verne  called 
"The  Cryptogram."  He  said  that  he  had  read  it  only  a 
few  days  ago.  He  had  discovered  it  in  her  room. 

Eileen  O'Connor  turned  round  eagerly  to  the  Presi- 
dent. 

"I  demand  the  production  of  that  book." 

An  orderly  was  sent  to  the  lieutenant's  rooms  to  fetch 
it.  It  was  clear  that  the  President  of  the  Court  made  a 
black  mark  against  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  for  not  having 
mentioned  its  discovery  to  the  Court.  As  yet,  however, 
he  could  not  see  the  bearing  of  it  on  the  case. 

Then,  with  the  book  in  her  hand,  Eileen  O'Connor 
turned  to  the  famous  cryptogram,  showed  how  it  corre- 
sponded exactly  with  her  own  cypher,  proved  that  the 
pieces  of  paper  found  in  her  rooms  were  copies  of  the 
Jules  Verne  cypher  in  the  handwriting  of  her  pupils. 

"You  see,  Herr  President!"  she  cried  eagerly. 

The  President  admitted  that  this  was  proved,  but,  as  he 
asked,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair,  for  what  purpose 
had  they  copied  out  that  cypher?  Cyphers  were  danger- 
ous things  to  write  in  time  of  war.  Deadly  things.  Why 
'did  these  ladies  want  to  learn  the  cypher  ? 

It  was  then  that  Eileen  O'Connor  was  most  brilliant 
She  described  in  a  simple  and  girlish  way  how  she  and 
her  pupils  worked  in  their  little  room.  While  they  copied 
freehand  models,  one  of  them  read  out  to  the  others, 
books  of  romance,  love,  adventure,  to  forget  the  gloom 
of  life  and  the  tragedy  of  war.  One  of  those  books  wag 
Jules  Verne's  "Cryptogram."  It  had  fascinated  them. 
•It  had  made  them  forget  the. misery  of  war.  They  were 
romantic  girls,  imaginative  girls.  Out  of  sheer  merri- 
ment, to  pass  the  hours,  they  had  tried  to  work  out  the 
cypher.  They  had  written  love-letters  to  imaginary  young 
men  in  those  secret  numbers.  Here  Eileen,  smiling 


,70  WOUNDED  SOULS 

ironically,  read  out  specimens  of  the  letters  that  had 
been  found. 

"Come  to  the  corner  of  the  rue  Esquermoise  at  9:45. 
You  will  know  me  because  I  shall  be  wearing  a  blue  bow 
in  a  black  hat." 

That  was  the  romantic  imagination  of  the  Baronne  de 
iVillers-Auxicourt. 

"When  you  see  a  lady  standing  outside  the  Jardin 
d'Ete,  with  a  little  brown  dog,  speak  to  her  in  French1 
and  say,  'Comme  il  fait  froid  aujourd'hui,  mademoiselle.' 
If  she  answers,  {Je  ne  vous  comprends  pas,  monsieur' 
you  will  understand  that  she  is  to  be  trusted,  and  you 
must  follow  her." 

That  was  a  romantic  idea  to  which  Eileen  herself 
pleaded  guilty. 

"Herr  President,"  said  Eileen,  "you  cannot  put  old 
heads  on  young  shoulders,  even  in  time  of  war.  A  party 
of  girls  will  let  their  foolish  little  minds  run  upon  ideas 
of  love,  even  when  the  sound  of  guns  is  not  far  away. 
You,  Herr  President,  will  understand  that  perfectly." 

Perhaps  there  was  something  in  the  character  of  the 
President  that  made  this  a  chance  hit.  All  the  German 
officers  laughed,  and  the  President  shifted  in  his  seat 
and  flushed  to  the  top  of  his  bald,  vulture-like  head. 

The  possession  of  those  German  uniforms  was  also 
explained  in  the  prettiest  way  by  Eileen  O'Connor.  They 
were  uniforms  belonging  to  three  handsome  young  Ger- 
man soldiers  who  had  died  in  hospital.  They  had  kept 
them  to  return  to  their  mothers  after  the  war,  those  poor 
German  mothers  who  were  weeping1  for  their  sons.  .  .  . 
This  part  of  her  defence  touched  the  German  officers 
deeply.  One  of  them  had  tears  in  his  eyes. 

The  list  of  escaped  fugitives  was  harder  to  explain, 
but  again  an  Irish  imagination  succeeded  in  giving  it  an 
innocent  significance.  It  had  been  compiled  by  a  prisoner 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  71' 

in  the  Citadel  and  given  to  Eileen  as  a  proof  that  his  own 
hope  of  escape  was  not  in  vain,  though  she  had  warned 
him  of  the  fearful  risk.  "The  poor  man  gave  me  the 
list  in  sheer  simplicity,  and  in  innocence  I  kept  it." 

Simply  and  touchingly  she  admitted  her  guilt  in  smug- 
gling food  to  French  and  British  prisoners  and  to  Ger- 
man sentries,  and  claimed  that  her  fault  was  only  against 
military  regulations,  but  in  humanity  was  justified. 

"I  am  Irish,"  she  said.  "I  have  in  my  heart  the  re- 
membrance of  English  crimes  to  Ireland — old,  unfor- 
gettable crimes  that  still  cry  out  for  the  justice  and  the 
liberty  which  are  denied  my  country." 

Some  of  the  younger  German  officers  shook  their  heads 
approvingly.  They  liked  this  Irish  hatred  of  England. 
It  was  according  to  their  text-books. 

"But,"  said  the  Irish  girl,  "the  sufferings  of  English 
prisoners — you  know  here  of  their  misery,  their  hunger, 
their  weakness  in  that  Citadel  where  many  have  died  and 
are  dying — stirred  my  compassion  as  a  woman  to  whom 
all  cruelty  is  tragic,  and  all  suffering  of  men  a  call  to  that 
mother-love  which  is  in  the  spirit  of  all  their  womanhood, 
as  you  know  by  your  German  women — as  I  hope  you 
know.  Because  they  were  starved  I  tried  to  get  them 
food,  as  I  would  to  starving  dogs  or  any  poor  creatures 
caught  in  the  trap  of  war,  or  of  men's  sport.  To  that 
I  confess  guilty,  with  gladness  in  my  guilt." 

The  Reverend  Mother,  standing  there  in  the  white- 
washed corridor  of  the  convent,  in  the  flickering  light 
of  an  oil  lantern  which  gleamed  on  the  white  ruff  round 
her  neck  and  the  silver  cross  on  her  breast,  though  her 
'face  was  shadowed  in  the  cavern  of  her  black  headdress, 
repeated  this  speech  of  Eileen  O'Connor  as  though  in 
hearing  it  first  she  had  learnt  it  by  heart. 

"The  child  was  divinely  inspired,  monsieur.  Our  Lady 
stood  by  her  side,  prompting  her.  I  am  sure  of  that." 


72  WOUNDED  SOULS 

The  trial  lengthened  out,  until  it  was  late  in  the  eve- 
ning when  the  Judge  summed  up.  He  spoke  again  of 
the  gravity  of  the  accusation,  the  dread  punishment  that 
must  befall  the  prisoner  if  her  guilt  were  proved,  the 
weight  of  evidence  against  her.  For  a  time  he  seemed 
to  press  her  guilt  heavily,  and  the  Court  was  gloomy. 
The  German  officers  looked  grave.  One  thing  happened 
in  the  course  of  his  speech  which  affected  the  audience 
profoundly.  It  was  when  he  spoke  of  the  romantic  ex- 
planation that  had  been  offered  by  the  prisoner  regard- 
ing the  secret  cypher. 

"This  lady,"  he  said,  "asks  me  to  believe  that  she  and 
her  companions  were  playing  a  simple  girlish  game  of 
make-believe.  Writing  imaginary  '  letters  to  mythical 
persons.  Were  these  young  ladies — nay,  is  she — herself 
— so  lacking  in  woman's  charm  that  she  has  no  living  man 
to  love  her  and  needs  must  write  fictitious  notes  to  non- 
existent men?" 

The  President  said  these  words  with  portentous  so- 
lemnity. Perhaps  only  a  German  could  have  spoken  them. 
He  paused  and  blinked  at  the  German  officers  below  him. 
Suddenly  into  the  silence  of  the^  court  came  a  ripple  of 
laughter,  clear  and  full  of  most  mirthful  significance. 

Eileen  O'Connor's  laugh  bewitched  the  crowded  court 
and  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter  in  which  all  the  officers, 
joined.  By  that  laugh  more  even  than  by  her  general 
gaiety,  her  courage  and  eloquence,  she  won  her  life. 

"I  said  a  decade  of  the  rosary  to  our  Blessed  Lady/* 
said  the  Reverend  Mother,  "and  thanked  God  that  this 
dear  child's  life  would  not  be  taken.  I  was  certain  that 
those  men  would  not  condemn  her  to  death.  She  was 
acquitted  on  the  charge  of  espionage,  and  sentenced  to 
two  weeks'  imprisonment  for  smuggling  food  to  prison- 
ers, by  a  verdict  of  seven  against  three.  Only  when  she 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  73 

left  the  court  did  she  fall  into  so  deep  a  swoon  that  for  a 
little  while  we  thought  her  dead." 

The  Reverend  Mother  had  told  her  story  well.  She 
held  me  in  a  deep  strained  interest.  It  was  rather  to  my- 
self than  to  her  that  I  spoke  the  words  which  were  my 
comment  at  the  end  of  this  narrative. 

"How  splendid!  .  .  .  But  I  am  puzzled  about  that 
German  lieutenant,  Franz  von  Kreuzenach.  He  kept  the 
real  evidence  back." 

"That,"  said  the  Reverend  Mother  solemnly,  "was  a 
great  mystery  and  a  miracle." 

Wickham  Brand  joined  us  in  the  passage,  with  Eileen 
O'Connor  by  his  side. 

"Not  gone  yet?"  said  Wickham. 

"I  have  been  listening  to  the  tale  of  a  woman's  cour- 
age," I  said,  and  when  Eileen  gave  me  her  hand,  I  raised 
it  to  my  lips,  in  the  French  style,  though  not  in  gal- 
lantry. 

"Reverend  Mother,"  she  said,  "has  been  exalting  me 
to  the  Seventh  Heaven  of  her  dear  heart." 

On  my  way  back  to  Brand's  mess  I  told  him  all  I  had 
heard  about  Eileen's  trial,  and  I  remember  his  enthu- 
siasm. 

"Fine!  Thank  heaven  there  are  women  like  that  in 
this  blood-soaked  world.  It  saves  one  from  absolute 
despair." 

He  made  no  comment  about  the  suppression  of  evi- 
dence, which  was  a  puzzle  to  me. 

We  parted  with  a  "So  long,  old  man,"  outside  hi3 
headquarters,  and  I  did  not  see  him  until  a  few  days 
later. 


TT  was  Frederick  E.  Small,  the  American  doctor,  at- 
•*•  tached  to  Brand's  crowd,  who  was  with  me  on  a  night 
in  Lille  before  the  Armistice,  when  by  news  from  the 
Colonel  we  were  stirred  by  the  tremendous  hope — almost 
a  certainty — that  the  end  of  the  war  was  near.  I  had 
been  into  Courtrai,  which  the  enemy  had  first  evacuated 
and  then  was  shelling.  It  was  not  a  joyous  entry  like 
that  into  Lille.  Most  of  the  people  were  still  down  in 
their  cellars,  where  for  several  days  they  had  been  herded 
together  until  the  air  became  foul.  On  the  outskirts  I 
had  passed  many  groups  of  peasants  with  their  babies 
and  old  people,  trudging  past  our  guns,  trekking  from 
one  village  to  another  in  search  of  greater  safety,  or 
standing  in  the  fields  where  our  artillery  was  getting  into 
action,  and  where  new  shell  craters  should  have  warned 
them  away,  if  they  had  had  more  knowledge  of  war. 
For  more  than  four  years  I  had  seen,  at  different  periods, 
crowds  like  that — after  the  first  flight  of  fugitives  in 
August  of  '14,  when  the  world  seemed  to  have  been  tilted 
up  and  great  populations  in  France  and  Belgium  were 
in  panic-stricken  retreat  from  the  advancing  edge  of 
war.  I  knew  the  types,  the  attitudes,  the  very  shape  oi 
the  bundles,  in  these  refugee  processions,  the  haggard 
look  of  the  mothers'  pushing  their  perambulators,  the  be- 
wildered look  oi  old  men  and  women,  the  tired  sleepy 
look  of  small  boys  and  girls,  the  stumbling  dead-beat  look 
of  old  farm-horses  dragging  carts  piled  high  with  cottage 
furniture.  As  it  was  at  the  beginning  so  it  was  at  the 

74 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  75 

end — for  civilians  caught  in  the  fires  of  war.  With  two 
other  men  I  went  into  the  heart  of  Courtrai  and  found  it 
desolate,  and  knew  the  reason  why  when,  at  the  corner 
of  the  Grande  Place,  a  heavy  shell  came  howling  and 
burst  inside  a  house  with  frightful  explosive  noise  fol- 
lowed by  a  crash  of  masonry.  The  people  were  wise  to 
keep  to  their  cellars.  Two  girls  not  so  wise  made  a 
dash  from  one  house  to  another  and  were  caught  by 
chunks  of  steel  and  killed  close  to  the  church  of  St.  Mar- 
tin, where  they  lay  all  crumpled  up  in  a  clotted  pool  of 
blood.  A  man  came  up  to  me,  utterly  careless  of  such 
risks,  and  I  hated  to  stand  talking  to  him  with  the  shells 
coming  every  half -minute  overhead. 

There  was  a  fire  of  passion  in  his  eyes,  and  at  every 
sentence  he  spoke  to  me  his  voice  rose  and  thrilled  as  he 
denounced  the  German  race  for  all  they  had  done  in 
Courtrai,  for  their  robberies,  their  imprisonments,  their 
destruction  of  machinery,  their  brutality.  The  last  Com- 
mandant of  Courtrai  was  von  Richthofen,  father  of  the 
German  aviator,  and  he  was  a  hard,  ruthless  man  and 
kept  the  city  under  an  iron  rule. 

"All  that,  thank  God,  is  finished  now,"  said  the  man. 
"The  English  have  delivered  us  from  the  Beast !"  As  he 
spoke  another  monstrous  shell  came  overhead,  but  he  took 
no  notice  of  it,  and  said,  "We  are  safe  now  from  the 
enemy's  evil  power!"  It  seemed  to  me  a  comparative 
kind  of  safety.  I  had  no  confidence  in  it  when  I  sat  in 
the  parlour  of  an  old  lady  who,  like  Eileen  O'Connor  in 
Lille,  had  been  an  Irish  governess  in  Courtrai,  and  who 
now,  living  in  miserable  poverty,  sat  in  a  bed-sitting1 
room  whose  windows  and  woodwork  had  been  broken  by 
shell-splinters.  "Do  you  mind  shutting  the  door,  my 
dear?"  she  said.  "I  can.'t  bear  those  nasty  bombs."  I 
realised  with  a  large,  experienced  knowledge  that  we 
might  be  torn  to  fragments  of  flesh,  at  any  moment,  by 


fT6  WOUNDED  SOULS 

one  of  those  nasty  "bombs,"  which  were  really  eight- 
inch  shells,  but  the  old  lady  did  not  worry,  and  felt  safe 
when  the  door  was  shut. 

Outside  Courtrai,  when  I  left,  lay  some  khaki  figures 
in  a  mush  of  blood.  They  were  lads  whom  I  had  seen 
unloading  ammunition  that  morning  on  the  bank  of  the 
canal.  One  had  asked  me  for  a  light,  and  said,  "What's 
all  this  peace-talk?  .  .  .  Any  chance?"  A  big  chance, 
I  had  told  him.  Home  for  Christmas,  certain  sure  this 
time.  The  boy's  eyes  had  lighted  up  for  a  moment, 
quicker  than  the  match  which  he  held  in  the  cup  of  his 
hands. 

"Jesus !    Baclc  'for  good ;  eh  ?" 

Then  the  light  went  out  of  his  eyes  as  the  matcH 
flared  up. 

"We've  heard  that  tale,  a  score  of  times.  The  Ger- 
mans are  weakening.  The  Huns  'ave  'ad  enough !  .  .  .' 
Newspaper  talk.  A  man  would  be  a  mug " 

Now  the  boy  lay  in  the  mud,  with  half  his  body  blown 
away.  ...  I  was  glad  to  get  back  to  Lille  for  a  spell, 
where  there  were  no  dead  bodies  in  the  roads.  And  the 
Colonel's  news,  straight  from  G.H.O.,  which — surely — * 
were  not  playing  up  the  old  false  optimism  again! — i 
helped  one  to  hope  that  perhaps  in  a  week  or  two  the  last* 
boys  of  our  race,  the  lucky  ones,  would  be  reprieved 
'from  that  kind  of  bloody  death,  which  I  had  seen  soJ 
often,  so  long,  so  heaped  up  in  many  fields  of  France 
and  Flanders,  where  the  flower  of  our  youth  was  killed. 

Dr.  Small  was  excited  by  the  hope  brought  back  by 
Colonel  Lavington.  He  sought  me  out  in  my  billet,  chez 
Madame  Chcri,  and  begged  me  to  take  a  walk  with  him. 
It  was  a  moonlight  night,  but  no  double  throb  of  a  Ger- 
man air-engine  came  booming  over  Lille.  He  walked  at 
a  hard  pace,  with  the  collar  of  his  "British  warm"  tucked 
tip  to  his  ears,  and  talked  in  a  queer  disjointed  mono- 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  77 

logue,  emotionally,  whimsically.  I  remember  some  of  his 
iwords,  more  or  less — anyhow  the  gist  of  his  thoughts. 

"I'm  not  worrying  any  more  about  how  the  war  will 
end.  We've  won!  Remarkable  that  when  one  thinks 
back  to  the  time,  less  than  a  year  ago,  when  the  best  thing 
seemed  a  draw.  I'm  thinking  about  the  future.  Wkat's 
the  world  going  to  be  afterwards?  That's  my  American 
mind — the  next  job,  so  to  speak." 

He  thought  hard  while  we  paced  round  our  side  of  the 
Jardin  d'Ete  where  the  moonlight  made  the  bushes  glam- 
ourous, and  streaked  the  tree-trunks  with  a  silver  line. 

"This  war  is  going  to  have  prodigious  effect  on  na- 
tions. On  individuals,  too.  I'm  scared.  We've  all  been 
screwed  up  to  an  intense  pitch — every  nerve  in  us  is  be- 
yond the  normal  stretch  of  nature.  After  the  war  there 
will  be  a  sudden  relaxing.  We  shall  be  like  bits  of 
chewed  elastic.  Rather  like  people  who  have  drugged 
themselves  to  get  through  some  big  ordeal.  After  the 
ordeal  their  nerves  are  all  ragged.  They  crave  the  old 
stimulus  though  they  dread  it.  They're  depressed — don't 
know  what's  the  matter — get  into  sudden  rages — hyster- 
ical— can't  settle  to  work — go  out  for  gaiety  and  get 
bored.  I've  seen  it  many  times  in  bad  cases.  Europe — 
yes  and  America  too — is  going  to  be  a  bad  case.  A  neu- 
rotic world — Lord,  it'll  take  some  healing!" 

For  a  time  his  thoughts  wandered  round  the  possible 
terms  of  peace  and  the  abasement  of  Germany.  He 
prophesied  the  break-up  of  Germany,  the  downfall  of 
the  Emperor  and  of  other  thrones. 

"Crowns  will  be  as  cheap  as  twenty  cents,"  he  said. 
He  hoped  for  the  complete  overthrow  of  Junkerdom — 
"all  the  dirty  dogs,"  as  he  called  the  Prussian  war-lords 
and  politicians.  But  he  hoped  the  Allies  would  be  gener- 
ous with  the  enemy  peoples — "magnanimous"  was  the 
word  he  used. 


78  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"We  must  help  the  spirit  of  democracy  to  rise  among 
them,"  he  said.  "We  must  make  it  easy  for  them  to 
exorcise  the  devil.  If  we  press  them  too  hard,  put  the 
screw  on  to  the  torture  of  their  souls  (defeat  will  be 
torture  to  a  proud  people),  they  will  nourish  a  hope  of 
vengeance  and  go  back  to  their  devil  for  hope." 

I  asked  him  whether  he  thought  his  President  would 
lead  the  world  to  a  nobler  stage  of  history. 

He  hesitated  at  that,  groped  a  little,  I  thought,  among 
old  memories  and  prejudices. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "Wilson  has  the  biggest  chance  that 
ever  came  to  a  human  being — the  biggest  chance  and  the 
biggest  duty.  We  are  rich  (too  darned  rich)  and  enor- 
mously powerful  when  most  other  peoples  are  poor  and 
weak — drained  of  wealth  and  blood.  That's  our  luck, 
and  a  little  bit  perhaps  our  shame,  though  our  boys  have 
done  their  bit  all  right  and  are  ready  to  do  more,  and 
it's  not  their  fault  they  weren't  here  before — but  we're 
hardly  touched  by  this  war  as  a  people,  except  spiritually. 
There  we've  been  touched  by  the  finger  of  Fate.  (God, 
if  you  like  that  better!)  So  with  that  strength  behind 
him  the  President  is  in  a  big  way  of  business.  He  can 
make  his  voice  heard,  stand  for  a  big  idea.  God,  sonny, 
I  hope  he'll  do  it!  For  the  world's  sake,  for  the  sake  of 
all  these  suffering  people,  here  in  this  city  of  Lille  and 
in  a  million  little  towns  where  people  have  been  bashed 
by  war." 

I  asked  him  if  he  doubted  Wilson's  greatness,  and  the 
question  embarrassed  him. 

"I'm  loyal  to  the  man,"  he  said.  "I'll  back  him  if  he 
plays  straight  and  big.  Bigness,  that's  what  we  want. 
Bigness  of  heart  as  well  as  bigness  of  brain.  Oh,  he's 
clever,  though  not  wise  in  making  so  many  enemies.  He 
has  fine  ideas  and  can  write  real  words.  Things  which 
speak.  True  things.  I'd  like  to  be  sure  of  his  character 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  79 

— its  breadth  and  strength,  I  mean.  The  world  wants  a 
Nobleman,  bigger  than  the  little  gentlemen  of  politics; 
a  Leader  calling  to  the  great  human  heart  of  our  tribes, 
and  lifting  them  with  one  grand  gesture  out  of  the  mire 
of  old  passions  and  vendettas  and  jealousies  to  a  higher 
plane  of — commonsense.  Out  of  the  jungle,  to  the  day- 
light of  fellowship.  Out  of  the  jungle." 

He  repeated  those  words  twice,  with  a  reverent  so- 
lemnity. He  believed  that  so  much  emotion  had  been 
created  in  the  heart  of  the  world  that  when  the  war 
ended  anything  might  happen  if  a  Leader  came — a  new 
religion  of  civilisation,  any  kind  of  spiritual  and  social 
revolution. 

"We  might  kill  cruelty,"  he  said.  "My  word,  what  a 
victory  that  would  be!" 


XI 

OUR  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  figure  that 
slipped  out  of  the  darkness  of  some  doorway,  hesi- 
tated before  us,  and  then  spoke  in  French. 

"You  are  English  officers  ?    May  I  speak  with  you  ?" 

It  was  a  girl,  whom  I  could  see  only  vaguely  in  the 
darkness — she  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  beyond 
the  moonlight — and  I  answered  her  that  I  was  English 
and  my  friend  American. 

"Is  there  any  way,"  she  asked,  "of  travelling1  from 
Lille,  perhaps  to  Paris?  In  a  motor-car,  for  example? 
To-night?" 

I  laughed  at  this  startling  request,  put  so  abruptly.  It 
was  already  nine  o'clock  at  night ! 

"Not  the  smallest  chance  in  the  world,  mademoiselle! 
Paris  is  far  from  Lille." 

"I  was  stupid,"  said  the  girl.  "Not  all  the  way  to 
Paris,  but  to  some  town  outside  Lille.  Any  town.  There 
are  motor-cars  always  passing  through  the  streets.  I 
thought  if  I  could  get  a  little  place  in  one " 

"It  is  difficult,"  I  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  for- 
bidden for  officers  to  take  civilians  except  in  case  of  sav- 
ing them  from  danger — in  shelled  places." 

She  came  suddenly  out  of  the  shadow  into  the  moon- 
light, and  I  saw  that  she  was  a  girl  with  red  hair  and  a 
face  strangely  white.  I  knew  by  the  way  she  spoke — the 
accent — as  well  as  by  the  neatness  of  her  dress,  that  she 
was  not  a  working-girl.  She  was  trembling  painfully, 
and  took  hold  of  my  arm  with  both  her  hands. 

80 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  81 

"Monsieur,  I  beg  of  you  to  help  me.  I  beseech  you  to 
think  of  some  way  in  which  I  may  get  away  from  Lille 
to-night.  It  is  a  matter  of  extreme  importance  to  me." 

A  group  of  young  men  and  women  came  up  the  street 
arm-in-arm,  shouting,  laughing,  singing  the  "Marseil- 
laise." They  were  civilians,  with  two  of  our  soldiers 
among  them,  wearing  women's  hats. 

Before  I  could  answer  the  girl's  last  words  she  made  a 
sudden  retreat  into  the  dark  doorway,  and  I  could  see 
dimly  that  she  was  cowering  back. 

Dr.  Small  spoke  to  me. 

"That  girl  is  scared  of  something.  The  poor  child  has 
got  the  jim-jams." 

I  went  closer  to  her  and  heard  her  breathing.  It  was 
quite  loud.  It  was  as  though  she  were  panting  after 
hard  running. 

"Are  you  ill?"  I  asked. 

She  did  not  answer  until  the  group  of  civilians  had 
passed.  They  did  not  pass  at  once,  but  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  up  at  a  light  burning  in  an  upper  win- 
dow. One  of  the  men  shouted  something  in  a  loud  voice 
— some  word  in  argot — which  I  did  not  understand,  and 
the  women  screeched  with  laughter.  Then  they  went  on, 
dancing  with  linked  arms,  and  our  two  soldiers  in  the 
women's  hats  lurched  along  with  them. 

"I  am  afraid !"  said  the  girl. 

"Afraid  of  what?"  I  asked. 

I  repeated  the  question — "Why  are  you  afraid,  made- 
moiselle ?"  and  she  answered  by  words  which  I  had  heard 
a  million  times  since  the  war  began  as  an  explanation  of 
all  trouble,  tears,  ruin,  misery. 

"C'est  la  guerre r 

"Look  out !"  said  the  little  doctor.    "She's  fainting." 
,     She  had  risen  from  her  cowering  position  and  stood 
upright  for  a  moment,  with  her  hand  against  the  door- 


83  WOUNDED  SOULS 

post.  Then  she  swayed  and  would  have  fallen  if  the 
doctor  had  not  caught  her.  Even  then  she  fell,  indeed, 
though  without  hurt,  because  he  could  not  support  her 
sudden  weight — though  she  was  of  slight  build, — and 
they  sank  together  in  a  kind  of  huddle  on  the  door-step. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike!"  said  Dr.  Small.  He  was  on 
his  knees  before  her  now,  chafing  her  cold  hands.  She 
came-to  in  about  a  minute,  and  I  leaned  over  her  and 
asked  her  where  she  lived,  and  made  out  from  her  faint 
whisper  that  she  lived  in  the  house  to  which  this  door- 
way belonged,  in  the  upper  room  where  the  light  was 
burning.  With  numbed  fingers — "cold  as  a  toad"  said 
"Daddy"  Small — she  fumbled  at  her  bodice  and  drew 
out  a  latch-key. 

"We  had  better  carry  her  up,"  I  said,  and  the  doctor 
nodded. 

The  front  door  opened  into  a  dimly-lit  passage,  uncar- 
peted,  and  with  leprous-looking  walls.  At  one  end  was 
a  staircase  with  heavy  bannisters.  The  doctor  and  I 
supported  the  girl,  who  was  able  to  walk  a  little  now, 
and  managed  to  get  her  to  the  first  landing. 

"Where  ?"  I  asked,  and  she  said,  "Opposite." 
It  was  the  front  room  looking  on  to  the  street.  A 
lamp  was  burning  on  the  round  table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  I  saw  by  the  light  of  it  the  poverty  of  the 
furniture,  and  its  untidiness.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
was  a  big  iron  bedstead  with  curtains  of  torn  lace,  and  on 
the  wooden  chairs  hung  some  soiled  petticoats,  and 
blouses.  There  was  a  small  cooking-stove  in  a  corner, 
but  no  charcoal  burned  in  it,  and  I  remember  an  ebony- 
framed  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece.  I  remember  that 
mirror,  vividly.  I  remember,  for  instance,  that  a  bit  of 
the  ebony  had  broken  off,  showing  the  white  plaster  un- 
derneath, and  a  crack  in  the  right-hand  corner  of  the 
looking-glass.  Probably  my  eyes  were  attracted  to  it 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  83 

because  of  a  number  of  photographs  stuck  into  the  frame- 
work. They  were  photographs  of  a  girl  in  a  variety 
of  stage  costumes,  and  glancing  at  the  girl  whom  the 
doctor  had  put  into  a  low  arm-chair,  I  saw  that  they 
were  of  her.  But  with  all  the  tragic  difference  between 
happiness  and  misery;  worse  than  that — between  un- 
scathed girlhood  and  haggard  womanhood.  This  girl 
with  red  hair  and  a  white  waxen  face  was  pretty  still. 
There  was  something  more  than  prettiness  in  the  broad- 
ness of  her  brow  and  the  long  tawny  lashes  that  were 
now  veiling  her  closed  eyes  as  she  sat  with  her  head  back 
against  the  chair,  showing  a  long  white  throat.  But  her 
face  was  lined  with  an  imprint  of  pain  and  her  mouth, 
rather  long  and  bow-like,  was  drawn  with  a  look  of 
misery. 

The  doctor  spoke  to  me — in  English,  of  course. 

"Half-starved,  I  should  say.     Or  starved." 

He  sniffed  at  the  stove  and  the  room  generally. 

"No  sign  of  recent  cooking." 

He  opened  a  cupboard  and  looked  in. 

"Nothing  in  the  pantry,  sonny.  I  guess  the  girl  would 
do  with  a  meal." 

I  did  not  answer  him.  I  was  staring1  at  the  photo- 
graphs stuck  into  the  mirror,  and  saw  one  that  was  not  a 
girl's  portrait.  It  was  the  photograph  of  a  young  French 
lieutenant.  I  crossed  the  room  and  looked  at  it  closer, 
and  then  spoke  to  the  little  doctor  in  a  curiously  unex- 
cited  voice,  as  one  does  in  moments  of  living  drama. 

"This  girl  is  Pierre  Nesle's  sister." 

"For  the  love  of  Mike !"  said  the  little  doctor,  for  the 
second  time  that  night 

The  girl  heard  the  name  of  Pierre  Nesle  and  opened 
her  eyes  wide,  with  a  wondering  look. 

"Pierre  Nesle?  That  is  my  brother.  Do  you  know 
him?" 


64  WOUNDED  SOULS 

I  told  her  that  I  knew  him  well  and  had  seen  him  iff 
Lille,  where  he  was  looking  for  her,  two  days  ago.  He 
jvas  now  in  the  direction  of  Courtrai. 

The  girl  was  painfully  agitated,  and  uttered  pitiful 
words. 

"Oh,  my  little  brother!"  she  murmured.  "My  dear 
little  comrade !"  She  rose  from  her  chair,  steadying  her- 
self with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  it,  and  with  feverish 
anxiety  said  that  she  must  go  at  once.  She  must  leave 
Lille. 

"Why  ?"  I  asked.     "Why  do  you  want  to  leave  Lille  7* 

"I  am  afraid!"  she  answered  again,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

I  turned  to  the  doctor  and  translated  her  words. 

"I  can't  understand  this  fear  of  hers — this  desire  to 
leave  Lille." 

Dr.  Small  had  taken  something  off  the  mantelpiece — ' 
a  glass  tube  with  some  tablets — which  he  put  in  his 
pocket. 

"Hysteria,"  he  said.  "Starvation,  war-strain,  and — • 
drugs.  There's  a  jolly  combination  for  a  young  lady's 
nerves!  She's  afraid  of  herself,  old  ghosts,  the  horrors. 
Wants  to  run  away  from  it  all,  forgetting  that  she  car- 
ries her  poor  body  and  brain  with  her.  I  know  the  symp- 
toms— even  in  little  old  New  York  in  time  of  peace." 

He  had  his  professional  manner.  I  saw  the  doctor 
through  his  soldier's  uniform.  He  spoke  with  the  au- 
thority of  the  medical  man  in  a  patient's  bedroom.  He 
ordered  me  to  go  round  to  my  mess  and  bring  back  some 
food,  while  he  boiled  up  a  kettle  and  got  busy.  When  I 
returned,  after  half-an-hour,  the  girl  was  more  cheerful. 
Some  of  the  horrors  had  passed  from  her,  in  the  doctor's 
company.  She  ate  some  of  the  food  I  had  brought  in  a 
famished  way,  but  after  a  few  mouth fuls  sickened  at  it 
and  would  eat  no  more.  But  a  faint  colour  had  come 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  83 

frilo  her  cheeks  and  gave  her  face  a  touch  of  real  beauty. 
She  must  have  been  extraordinarily  attractive  before  the 
war — as  those  photographs  showed.  She  spoke  of 
Pierre  with  adoration.  He  had  been  all  that  was  good 
to  her  before  she  left  home  (she  hated  her  mother!)  td 
sing  in  cabarets  and  cafe  concerts. 

"I  cannot  imagine  Pierre  as  a  lieutenant!"  she  re* 
marked  with  a  queer  little  laugh. 

Dr.  Small  said  he  would  get  some  women  in  the  hous6 
to  look  after  her  in  the  night,  but  she  seemed  hostile  to! 
that  idea. 

"The  people  here  are  unkind.  They  are  bad  womed 
here.  If  I  died  they  would  not  care." 

She  promised  to  stay  in  the  house  until  we  could  ar- 
range for  Pierre  to  meet  her  and  take  her  away  to  Paris. 
[But  I  felt  the  greatest  pity  for  the  girl  when  we  left  heij 
alone  in  her  miserable  room.  The  scared  look  had  come 
back  to  her  face.  I  could  see  that  she  was  in  terror  o$ 
being  alone  again. 

When  we  walked  back  to  our  billets  the  doctor  spoke 
of  the  extraordinary  chance  of  meeting  the  girl  like  that 
— the  sister  of  our  liaison  officer.  The  odds  were  a  mil- 
lion to  one  against  such  a  thing. 

"I  always  feel  there's  a  direction  in  these  cases/'  said 
Daddy  Small.  "Some  Hand  that  guides.  Maybe  you 
and  I  were  being  led  to-night.  I'd  like  to  save  that  girl, 
Marthe." 

"Is  that  her  name?" 

"Marthe  de  Mericourt,  she  calls  herself,  as  a  singing- 
girl.  I  guess  that's  why  Pierre  could  not  hear  of  her  in 
this  town." 

Later  on  the  doctor  spoke  again. 

"That  girl  is  as  much  a  war-victim  as  if  she  had  been 
shell-shocked  on  the  field  of  battle.  The  casualty-lists 
don't  say  anything  about  civilians,  not  a  darned  thing 


86  WOUNDED  SOULS 

about  broken  hearts,  stricken  women,  diseased  babies,  in- 
fant mortality;  all  the  hell  of  suffering  behind  the  lines. 
May  God  curse  all  war  devils !" 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  said  in  a  very 
solemn  way: 

"After  this  thing  is  finished — this  grisly  business — you 
and  I,  and  all  men  of  goodwill,  must  put  our  heads  to- 
gether to  prevent  it  happening  again.  I  dedicate  what- 
ever life  I  have  to  that." 

He  seemed  to  have  a  vision  of  hope. 

"There  are  lots  of  good  fellows  in  the  world.  Wick- 
ham  Brand  is  one  of  'em.  Charles  Fortune  is  another. 
One  finds  them  everywhere  on  your  side  and  mine. 
Surely  we  can  get  together  when  peace  comes,  and  make 
a  better  system,  somehow." 

"Not  easy,  Doctor." 

He  laughed  at  me. 

"I  hate  your  pessimism  f  .  .  .  We  must  get  a  message 
to  Pierre  Nesle.  .  .  .  Good  night,  sonny!" 

On  the  way  back  to  my  billet  I  passed  young  Clat- 
worthy.  He  was  too  engrossed  to  see  me,  having  his 
arm  round  a  girl  who  was  standing  with  him  under  an 
unlighted  lamp-post.  She  was  looking  up  into  his  face 
on  which  the  moonlight  shone — a  pretty  creature,  I 
thought. 

"Je  t' adore!"  she  murmured  as  I  passed  quite  close; 
and  Clatworthy  kissed  her. 

I  knew  the  boy's  mother  and  sisters,  and  wondered 
what  they  would  think  of  him  if  they  saw  him  now  with 
this  little  street-walker.  To  them  Cyril  was  a  white 
knight  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  The  war  had  not 
improved  him.  He  was  no  longer  the  healthy  lad  who 
had  been  captain  of  his  school,  with  all  his  ambition  in 
sport,  as  I  had  known  him  five  years  before.  Sometimes, 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  87 

in  spite  of  his  swagger  and  gallantry,  I  saw  something 
sinister  in  his  face,  the  look  of  a  soiled  soul.     Poor  kid  t 
He  too  would  have  his  excuse  for  all  things : 
"Cest  la  guerre  T 


XII 

V 

I"  T  was  five  o'clock  on  the  following  evening  that  I  saw 
•*•  the  girl  Marthe  again.  The  Doctor  and  I  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  round  to  her  lodging  after  dinner,  by  which 
time  we  hoped  to  have  a  letter  for  her  from  Pierre,  by 
despatch-rider.  But  Brand  was  with  me  in  the  after- 
noon, having  looked  in  to  my  billet  with  an  English  con- 
versation-book for  Helene,  who  was  anxious  to  study 
our  way  of  speech.  Madame  Cheri  insisted  upon  giving 
him  a  glass  of  wine,  and  we  stood  talking  in  her  draw- 
ing-room awhile  about  the  certain  hope  of  victory,  and 
then  trivial  things.  Helene  was  delighted  with  her  book 
and  Brand  had  a  merry  five  minutes  with  her,  teaching 
her  to  pronounce  the  words. 

"Cest  effroyable!"  cried  Helene.  "'Through*  .  .  . 
'Tough'  .  .  .  'Cough'  .  .  .  Mon  Dieu,  comme  c'est  diffi- 
cile! There  is  no  rule  in  your  tongue." 

Madame  Cheri  spoke  of  Edouard,  her  eldest  boy,  whd 
had  disappeared  into  the  great  silence,  and  gave  me  a 
photograph  of  him,  in  case  I  should  meet  him  in  our 
advance  towards  the  Rhine.  She  kissed  the  photograph 
before  giving  it  to  me,  and  said  a  few  words  which  re- 
vealed her  strong  character,  her  passionate  patriotism. 

"If  he  had  been  four  years  older  he  would  have  been 
a  soldier  of  France.  I  should  have  been  happy  if  he 
could  have  fought  for  his  country,  and  died  for  it,  like 
my  husband." 

Brand  and  I  left  the  house  and  went  up  towards  the 
Grande  Place.  I  was  telling  him  about  Pierre  Nesle's 

83 


89 

sister  and  our  strange  meeting  with  her  the  night  before. 

"I'm  precious  glad,"  said  Brand,  "that  no  sister  of 
mine  was  behind  German  lines.  God  knows  how  much 
they  had  to  endure.  Imagine  their  risks!  It  was  a 
lucky  escape  for  that  girl  Helene,  Supposing  she  had 
failed  to  barricade  her  door?" 

When  we  came  into  the  Grande  Place  we  saw  that 
something  was  happening.  It  was  almost  dark  after  a 
shadowy  twilight,  but  we  could  see  a  crowd  of  people 
surging  round  some  central  point  of  interest.  Many  of 
them  were  laughing,  loudly.  There  was  some  joke  in 
progress.  The  women's  tongues  sounded  most  loud,  and 
shrill. 

"They're  getting  back  to  gaiety/*  said  Brand.  "What'i 
the  jest,  I  wonder?" 

A  gust  of  laughter  came  across  the  square.  Above  it 
was  another  sound,  not  so  pleasant.  It  was  a  woman'3 
shrieks — shriek  after  shriek,  most  blood-curdling,  and 
then  becoming  faint. 

"What  the  devil !"  said  Brand. 

We  were  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  and  I  spoke  to  a 
man  there. 

"What's  happening?" 

He  laughed,  in  a  grim  way. 

"It's  the  coiffure  of  a  lady.  They  are  cutting  her 
hair." 

I  was  mystified. 

"Cutting  her  hair?" 

A  woman  spoke  to  me,  by  way  of  explanation,  laugh- 
ing like  the  man, 

"Shaving  her  head,  monsieur.  She  was  one  of  those 
who  were  too  complaisant  with  German  officers.  You 
understand?  There  were  many  of  them.  They  ought 
to  have  their  heads  cut  off,  as  well  as  their  hair." 

Another  man  {spoke,  gruffly. 


00  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"There  would  be  a  good  many  headless.corpses,  if  that 
were  so.  To  their  shame  be  it  said.  It  was  abominable. 
No  pride.  No  decency." 

"But  the  worst  will  escape,"  said  another.  "In  pri- 
vate houses.  The  well-dressed  demoiselles!" 

"Tuez-lcs!"  cried  a  woman.     "Tucz-lesl" 

It  was  a  cry  for  killing,  such  as  women  had  screamed 
when  pretty  aristocrats  were  caught  by  the  mobs  of  the 
French  Revolution. 

"My  God!"  said  Brand. 

He  shouldered  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  I  fol- 
lowed him.  The  people  made  a  gap  for  us,  seeing  our 
uniforms,  and  desired  us  to  enjoy  the  joke.  What  I 
saw  when  I  came  closer  was  a  group  of  young  men  hold- 
ing a  limp  figure.  One  of  them  was  brandishing  a  large 
pair  of  scissors,  as  large  as  shears.  Another  held  up  a 
tangled  mass  of  red  hair. 

"Rcgardez!"  he  shouted  to  the  crowd,  and  they  cheered 
and  laughed. 

\  had  seen  the  hair  before,  as  I  knew  when  I  saw  a 
girl's  face,  dead-white,  lifeless,  as  it  seemed,  and  limp 
against  a  man's  shoulder. 

"It  is  Marthe !"  I  said  to  Brand.  "Pierre  Nesle's  sis- 
ter." 

A  curious  sense  of  faintness  overcame  me,  and  I  felt 
sick. 

Brand  did  not  answer  me,  but  I  saw  his  face  pale  under 
its  tan.  He  pushed  forward  through  the  crowd  and  I 
lost  sight  of  him  for  a  few  moments.  After  that  I  saw 
him  carrying  the  girl;  above  the  heads  of  the  people  I 
saw  her  head  flopping  from  side  to  side  horribly,  a  head 
with  close-cropped  hair.  They  had  torn  her  clothes  off 
her  shoulders,  which  were  bleeding. 

"Help  me,"  said  Brand. 

I  am  not  quite  clear  what  happened.     I  have  only  a 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  91 

yague  remembrance  of  the  crowd  making  way  for  us, 
with  murmurs  of  surprise,  and  some  hostile  cries  of 
women.  I  remember  helping  Brand  to  carry  the  girl — 
enormously  heavy  she  seemed  with  her  dead  weight — but 
how  we  managed  to  get  her  into  Dr.  Small's  car  is  to  this 
day  a  blank  in  my  mind.  We  musifhave  seen  and  hailed 
him  at  the  Corner  of  the  Grande  Place  as  he  was  going 
back  to  his  billet.  I  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  taking 
off  my  Burberry  and  laying  it  over  the  girl,  who  was 
huddled  in  the  back  of  the  car,  and  of  Brand  saying, 
"Where  can  we  take  her?"  I  also  remember  trying  to 
light  a  cigarette  and  using  many  matches  which  went 
out  in  the  wind.  It  was  Brand's  idea  that  we  should  go 
to  Madame  Cheri's  house  for  sanctuary,  and  by  the  time 
we  had  driven  to  that  place  we  had  left  the  crowd  behind 
and  were  not  followed. 

"You  go  in  and  explain  things,"  said  Brand.  "Ask 
Madame  to  give  the  girl  a  refuge." 

I  think  Madame  Cheri  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  the 
car,  and  perhaps  by  some  queer  look  I  had.  I  told  her 
what  had  happened.  This  girl  was  the  sister  of  Pierre 
Nesle,  whom  Madame  Cheri  had  met.  The  crowd,  for 
some  reason,  had  cut  off  her  hair.  Would  Madame  save 
the  poor  child,  who  was  unconscious  ? 

I  shall  never  forget  the  face  or  speech  of  that  lady, 
whom  I  had  found  so  kind.  She  drew  herself  up  very 
stiffly  and  a  relentless  expression  hardened  her  fa.ce. 

"If  you  were  not  English  I  should  say  you  desired  to 
insult  me,  sir.  The  people  have  cut  off  the  creature's 
hair.  'For  some  reason'  you  say.  There  is  only  one 
reason.  Because  she  was  faithless  to  her  country  and 
to  her  sex,  and  was  familiar  with  men  who  were  the 
enemies  of  France,  the  murderers  of  our  men,  robbers 
and  assassins.  She  has  been  well  punished.  I  would 
rather  burn  down  my  house  than  give  her  shelter.  If 


92  WOUNDED  SOULS 

they  gave  her  to  the  dogs  to  tear  in  pieces  I  would  not 
lift  my  little  finger  to  save  her." 

Helene  came  in,  and  was  surprised  at  the  emotion  of 
her  mother's  voice. 

"What  is  it,  little  maman?" 

Madame  Cheri,  regained  control  of  herself,  which  for  a 
moment  she  had  lost  in  a  passion  that  shook  her. 

"It  is  a  little  matter.  This  officer  and  I  have  beem 
talking  about  vile  people  who  sold  themselves  to  our 
enemy.  He  understands  perfectly." 

"I  understand,"  I  said,  gravely.  "There. is  a  great 
deal  of  cruelty  in  the  world,  madame,  and  less  charity 
than  I  had  hoped.'* 

"There  is,  praise  be  to  God,  a  little  justice,"  paid 
Madame  Cheri,  very  calmly. 

"Au  revoir,  madame  1" 

{'Au  revoir,  monsieur  !"• 

"Au  revoir,  mademoiselle!" 

I  was  shocked  then  at  the  callousness  of  the  lady.  It 
Deemed  to  me  incredible.  Now  I  am  no  longer  shocked, 
but  understand  the  horror  that  was  hers,  the  loathing, 
jfor  a  daughter  of  France  who  had — if  the  mob  were  not 
mistaken! — violated  the  code  of  honour  which  enabled 
the  French  people  to  resist  German  brutality,  even  Ger- 
man kindness,  which  they  hated  worse,  with  a  most  proud 
disdain.  That  girl  outside,  bleeding  and  senseless  in  the 
car,  had  been  friendly  with  German  officers,  notorious  in 
her  company  with  them.  Otherwise  she  would  not  have 
been  seized  by  the  crowd  and  branded  for  shame.  There 
was  a  fierce  protective  instinct  which  hardened  Madame 
Cheri  against  charity.  Only  those  who  have  seen  what 
war  means  to  women  close  to  it,  in  enemy  hands,  may 
truly  understand,  and,  understanding,  curse  war  again 
for  all  its  destruction  of  souls  and  bodies. 


XIII 

"DRAND  and  Dr.  Small  were  both  astonished  and  in- 
•*-*  dignant. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  she  shuts  her  door  against  this 
poor  bleeding  girl  ?"  said  Brand. 

The  American  doctor  did  not  waste  words.  He  only 
used  words  when  there  was  no  action  on  hand. 

"The  next  place?"  he  said.     "A  hospital?" 

I  had  the  idea  of  the  convent  where  Eileen  O'Connor 
lodged.  There  was  a  sanctuary.  Those  nuns  were 
vowed  to  Christian  charity.  They  would  understand  and 
have  pity. 

"Yes,"  said  Brand,  and  he  called  to  the  driver. 

We  drove  hard  to  the  convent,  and  Brand  was  out  of 
the  car  before  it  stopped,  and  rang  the  bell  with  such  a 
tug  that  we  heard  it  jangling  loudly  in  the  courtyard. 

It  seemed  long  before  the  little  wicket  opened  and  a 
woman's  voice  said,  "Qui  est  la?" 

Brand  gave  his  name,  and  said,  "Open  quickly,  met 
soeur.  We  have  a  woman  here  who  is  ill." 

The  gate  was  opened,  and  Brand  and  I  lifted  out  the 
girl,  who  was  still  unconscious,  but  moaning  slightly,  and 
carried  her  into  the  courtyard,  and  thence  inside  the  con- 
vent to  the  white-washed  passage  where  I  had  listened 
so  long  to  the  Reverend  Mother  telling  me  of  the  trial 
scene. 

It  was  the  Reverend  Mother  who  came  now,  with  two 
of  her  nuns,  while  the  little  portress  stood  by,  clasping 
her  hands. 


94  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"An  accident?"  said  the  Reverend  Mother.  "How 
was  the  poor  child  hurt?" 

She  bent  over  the  girl,  Marthe, — Pierre  Nesle's  sister, 
as  I  remembered  with  an  added  pity — pulled  my  Bur- 
berry from  her  face  and  shoulders  and  glanced  at  the  be- 
draggled figure  there. 

"Her  hair  has  been  cut  off,"  said  the  old  nun.  "That 
is  strange!  There  are  the  marks  of  finger-nails  on  her 
shoulder.  What  violence  was  it,  then?" 

Brand  described  the  rescue  of  the  girl  from  the  mob, 
who  would  have  torn  her  to  pieces,  and  as  he  spoke  I 
saw  a  terrible  look  come  into  the  Reverend  Mother's  face. 

"I  remember — 1870,"  she  said  harshly.  "They  cut 
the  hair  of  women  who  had  disgraced  themselves — and 
France — by  their  behaviour  with  German  soldiers.  We 
thought  then  that  it  was  a  light  punishment  ...  we 
think  so  now,  monsieur!" 

One  of  the  nuns,  a  young  woman  who  had  been  touch-, 
ing  the  girl's  head,  smoothing  back  her  tousled  close- 
cropped  hair,  sprang  up  as  though  she  had  touched  an 
evil  thing,  and  shrank  back. 

Another  nun  spoke  to  the  Reverend  Mother. 

"This  house  would  be  defiled  if  we  took  in  a  creature 
like  that.  God  forbid,  Reverend  Mother— 

The  old  Superior  turned  to  Brand,  and  I  saw  how 
her  breast  was  heaving  with  emotion. 

"It  would  have  been  better,  sir,  if  you  had  left  this 
wretched  woman  to  the  people.  The  voice  of  the  people 
is  sometimes  the  voice  of  God.  If  they  knew  her  guilt 
their  punishment  was  just.  Reflect  what  it  means  to 
us — to  all  our  womanhood.  Husbands,  fathers,  brothers 
were  being  killed  by  these  Germans.  Our  dear  France 
was  bleeding  to  death.  Was  there  any  greater  crime 
than  that  a  Frenchwoman  should  show  any  weakness, 
any  favour,  to  one  of  those  men  who  were  helping  to 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  95 

cause  the  agony  of  France,  the  martyrdom  of  our 
youth?" 

Brand  stammered  out  a  few  words.  I  remember  only 
two:  "Christian  charity F' 

The  American  doctor  and  I  stood  by  silently.  Dr. 
Small  was  listening  with  the  deepest  attention,  as  though 
some  new  truth  about  human  nature  were  being  revealed 
to  him. 

It  was  then  that  a  new  voice  was  raised  in  that  white- 
washed corridor.  It  was  Eileen  O'Connor's  Irish  con- 
tralto, and  it  vibrated  with  extraordinary  passion,  as  she 
spoke  in  French. 

"Reverend  Mother !  .  .  .  I  am  dismayed  by  the  words 
you  have  spoken.  I  do  not  believe,  though  my  ears  have' 
heard  them.  No,  they  are  unbelievable!  I  have  seen 
your  holiness,  your  charity,  every  day  for  four  years, 
nursing  German  prisoners,  and  English,  with  equal  ten- 
derness, with  a  great  pity.  Not  shrinking  from  any  hor- 
ror or  the  daily  sight  of  death,  but  offering  it  all  as  a 
jsacrifice  to  God.  And  now,  after  our  liberation,  when 
we  ought  to  be  uplifted  by  the  Divine  favour  that  has 
come  to  us,  you  would  turn  away  that  poor  child  who  lies 
bleeding  at  our  feet,  another  victim  of  war's  cruelty^ 
Was  it  not  war  that  struck  her  down  ?  This  war  which 
has  been  declared  against  souls  as  well  as  bodies!  This 
war  on  women,  as  well  as  on  fighting-men  who  had  less 
need  of  courage  than  some  of  us!  What  did  our  Lord 
say  to  a  woman  who  was  taken  by  the  mob?  'He  that 
is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone!' 
It  was  Mary  Magdalen  who  kissed  His  feet,  and  wiped 
them  with  her  hair.  This  girl  has  lost  her  hair,  but 
perhaps  Chrict  has  taken  it  as  a  precious  napkin  for  His 
wounds.  We  who  have  been  lucky  in  escape  from  evil — » 
shall  we  cast  her  out  of  the  house  which  has  a  cross 
above  its  roof?  I  have  been  lucky  above  most  women  in 


96  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Lille.  If  all  things  were  known,  I  might  be  lying  there 
in  that  girl's  place,  bleeding  and  senseless,  without  this 
hair  of  mine.  Reverend  Mother — remember  Franz  von 
Kreuzcnach!'* 

We — Dr.  Small,  Brand  and  I — were  dumbfounded  by 
Eileen  O'Connor's  passionate  outcry.  She  was  utterly 
unconscious  of  us  and  looked  only  at  the  Reverend 
Mother,  with  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  was  more  intensely 
spiritual  than  I  had  seen  before  in  any  woman's  face. 

The  old  nun  seemed  stricken  by  Eileen's  words.  Into 
her  rugged  old  face,  all  wrinkled  about  the  eyes,  crept 
an  expression  of  remorse  and  shame.  Once  she  raised 
her  hands,  slowly,  as  though  beseeching  the  girl  to  spare 
her.  Then  her  hands  came  down  again  and  clasped  each 
other  at  her  breast,  and  her  head  bowed  so  that  her  chin 
was  dug  into  her  white  bib.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes 
and  fell  unheeded  down  her  withered  cheeks.  I  can  see 
now  the  picture  of  us  all  standing  there  in  the  white- 
washed corridor  of  the  convent,  in  the  dim  light  of  a 
hanging  lantern — we  three  officers  standing  together,  the 
huddled  figure  of  Marthe  Nesle  lying  at  our  feet,  half 
covered  with  my  trench-coat,  but  with  her  face  lying1 
sideways,  white  as  death  under  her  cropped  red  hair,  and 
her  bare  shoulders  stained  with  a  streak  of  blood;  op- 
posite, the  old  Mother,  with  bowed  head  and  clasped 
hands;  the  two  young  nuns,  rigid,  motionless,  silent; 
and  Eileen  O'Connor,  with  that  queer  light  on  her  face, 
and  her  hands  stretched  out  with  a  gesture  of  passionate 
appeal. 

The  Reverend  Mother  raised  her  head  and  spoke — 
after  what  seemed  like  a  long  silence,  but  was  only  a 
second  or  two,  I  suppose. 

"My  child,  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  have  said  many 
prayers.  But  you  have  taught  me  the  lesson,  which  I 
thought  I  knew,  that  the  devil  does  not  depart  from  us 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  97 

until  our  souls  have  found  eternal  peace.  I  am  a  wicked 
old  woman,  and  until  you  opened  my  eyes  I  was  forget- 
ful of  charity  and  of  our  Lord's  most  sweet  commands." 

She  turned  to  us  now  with  an  air  of  wonderful  dig- 
nity and  graciousness. 

"Gentlemen,  I  pray  you  to  carry  this  wounded  girl  tor 
my  own  cell.  To-night  I  will  sleep  on  bare  boards." 

One  of  the  young  nuns  was  weeping  bitterly. 

So  we  lifted  up  Marthe  Nesle,  and,  following  the  Rev- 
erend Mother,  carried  her  to  a  little  white  room  and  laid 
her  on  an  iron  bedstead  under  a  picture  of  the  Madonna, 
below  which  burned  an  oil  lamp  on  a  wooden  table.  The 
American  doctor  asked  Eileen  O'Connor  to  bring  him 
some  hot  water. 

Brand  and  I  went  back  in  the  car,  and  I  dined  at  his 
mess  again. 


XIV 

COLONEL  LAVINGTON  was  discussing  the  art  of 
the  sonnet,  and  the  influence  of  Italian  culture  in 
Elizabethan  England.     From  that  subject  he  travelled 
to  the  psychology  of  courage,  which  in  his  opinion,  for 
the  moment,  was  founded  on  vanity. 

"Courage,"  he  said  with  that  gallant  look  of  his  which 
I  had  seen  with  admiration  when  he  walked  up  the  old 
duckboards  beyond  Ypres,  with  a  whimsical  smile  at 
"crumps"  bursting  abominably  near — he  had  done  bravely 
in  the  old  days,  as  a  battalion  commander — "Courage  is 
merely  a  pose  before  the  mirror  of  one's  own  soul  and 
one's  neighbours.  We  are  all  horribly  afraid  in  mo- 
ments of  danger,  but  some  of  us  have  the  gift  of  pre- 
tending that  we  don't  mind.  That  is  vanity.  We  like 
to  look  heroes,  even  to  ourselves.  It  is  good  to  die  with 
a  beau  geste,  though  death  is  damnably  unpleasant." 

"I  agree,  Colonel,"  said  Charles  Fortune.  "Always 
the  right  face  for  the  proper  occasion.  But  it  wants  a 
lot  of  practice." 

He  put  on  his  gallant,  devil-may-care  face,  and  there 
was  appreciative  laughter  from  his  fellow-officers. 

Harding,  the  young  landowner,  was  of  opinion  that 
courage  depended  entirely  on  the  liver. 

"It  is  a  matter  of  physical  health,"  he  said.  "If  I  am 
out-of-sorts,  my  moral  goes  down  to  zero.  Not  that  I'm 
ever  really  brave.  Anyhow  I  hate  things  that  go  off. 
Those  loud  noises  of  bursting  shells  are  very  objection- 
able. I  shall  protest  against  Christmas  crackers  after 
the  war." 

98 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTUHE  99 

Young  Clatworthy  was  in  the  sulks,  and  sat  very  silent 
during  all  this  badinage. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked,  and  he  confided  to  me 
his  conviction,  while  he  passed  the  salt,  that  "life  was  a 
rummy  game." 

"Hipped  ?"  I  said,  and  his  answer  was,  "Fed  up  to  the 
back  teeth !" 

That  seemed  to  me  curious,  after  the  glimpse  I  had 
had  of  him  with  a  little  lady  of  Lille.  The  boy  explained 
himself  somewhat,  under  cover  of  the  Colonel's  conver- 
sation, which  was  holding  the  interest  of  the  mess. 

"We're  living  unnaturally,"  he  said.  "It's  all  an  ab- 
normal show,  and  we  pretend  to  be  natural  and  normal, 
when  everything  that  happens  round  us  is  fantastic  and 
disorderly." 

"What's  your  idea?"  I  enquired.  It  was  the  first  time 
I  had  heard  the  boy  talk  seriously,  or  with  any  touch  of 
gravity. 

"Hard  to  explain,"  he  said.  "But  take  my  case  to-day. 
This  morning  I  went  up  the  line  to  interrogate  the  latest 
batch  of  P.O.W's.  (He  meant  prisoners  of  war).  "A 
five-point-nine  burst  within  ten  yards  of  my  car,  the  other 
side  of  Courtrai,  killed  my  driver  and  missed  me  by  a 
couple  of  inches.  I  felt  as  sick  as  a  dog  when  I  saw 
Saunders  crumpled  over  his  steering-wheel,  with  blood 
pouring  down  his  neck.  Not  that  it's  the  first  time  I've 
seen  blood!" 

He  laughed  as  he  gave  a  glance  at  his  wound-stripe, 
and  I  rermembered  the  way  in  -which  he  had  gained  his 
M.C.  at  Gommecourt — one  of  three  left  alive  in  his  com- 
pany. 

"We  had  been  talking,  three  minutes  before,  about  hisj 
next  leave.  He  had  been  married  in  '16,  after  the 
Somme,  and  hadn't  seen  his  wife  since.  Said  her  letters 
made  him  'uneasy.'  Thought  she  was  drinking,  because 


100  WOUNDED  SOULS 

of  the  loneliness.  Well,  there  he  was — finished — and  a 
nasty  sight.  I  went  off  to  the  P.O.W.  cage,  and  exam- 
ined the  beggars — one  of  them,  as  usual,  had  been  a 
waiter  at  the  Cecil,  and  said  'How's  dear  old  London?' — • 
and  passed  the  time  of  day  with  Bob  Mellett.  You  know 
- — the  one-armed  lad.  He  laughed  no  end  when  he  heard 
of  my  narrow  squeak.  So  did  I — though  it's  hard  to 
see  the  joke.  He  lent  me  his  car  on  the  way  back,  and 
somewhere  outside  Courtrai  we  bumped  over  a  dead 
body,  with  a  queer  soft  squelch.  It  was  a  German — a 
young  'un — and  Bob  Mellett  said,  'He  won't  be  home  for 
Christmas!'  Do  you  know  Bob? — he  used  to  cry  at 
school  when  a  rat  was  caught.  Queer,  isn't  it?  Now 
here  I  am,  sitting  at  a  white  table-cloth,  listening  to  the 
Colonel's  talk,  and  pretending  to  be  interested.  I'm  not 
a  bit,  really.  I'm  wondering  why  that  bit  of  shell  hit: 
Saunders  and  not  me.  Or  why  I'm  not  lying  in  a  muddy 
road  as  a  bit  of  soft  squelch  for  staff-cars  to  bump  over. 
And  on  top  of  that  I'm  wondering  how  it  will  feel  to 
hang  up  a  bowler  hat  again  in  a  house  at  Wimbledon, 
and  say  'Cheerio,  Mother!'  to  the  mater  (who  will  be 
knitting  in  the  same  arm-chair — chintz-covered — by  the 
piano)  and  read  the  evening  paper  until  dinner's  ready, 
take  Ethel  to  a  local  dance,  and  get  back  into  the  old 
rut  of  home  life  in  a  nice  family,  don't  you  know? 
With  all  my  memories.  With  the  ghosts  of  this  life 
crowding  up.  Ugly  ghosts,  some  of  'em !  Dirty  ghosts  I 
.  .  .  It's  inconceivable  that  we  can  ever  go  back  to  the 
funny  old  humdrum !  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  to." 

"You're  hipped,"  I  told  him.  "You'll  be  glad  to  get 
back  all  right.  Wimbledon  will  be  Paradise  after  what 
you've  been  through." 

"Oh,  Lord,  I've  done  nothing,"  said  the  boy.  "Fact  is, 
I've  been  talking  tripe.  Forget  it." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         101! 

But  I  did  not  forget,  and  remembered  every  word  later, 
when  I  heard  his  laughter,  on  Armistice  night. 

A  despatch-rider  stood  outside  the  door  in  his  muddy 
overalls,  and  Brand  went  to  get  his  message.  It  wa$ 
from  Pierre  Nesle. 

"I  am  mad  with  joy  that  you  have  found  Marthel 
Alas,  I  cannot  get  back  for  a  week.  Tell  her  that  I  am 
still  her  devoted  comrade  and  loving  brother.  Pierre." 

Brand  handed  me  the  slip  and  said,  "Poor  devil!"  I 
went  back  to  my  billet  in  Madame  Cheri's  house,  and  she 
made  no  allusion  to  our  conversation  in  the  afternoon, 
but  was  anxious,  I  thought,  to  assure  me  of  her  friend- 
phip  by  special  little  courtesies,  as  when  she  lighted  my 
candle  and  carried  it  upstairs  before  saying  Good  night. 
Helene  was  learning  English  fast  and  furiously,  and  with 
her  arms  round  her  mother's  waist,  said,  "Sleep  well,  sir, 
and  very  good  dreams  to  you!"  which  I  imagine  was  a 
sentence  out  of  her  text-book. 


THEY  were  great  days — in  the  last  two  weeks  before 
the  Armistice!  For  me,  and  for  many  men,  they 
were  days  of  exultation,  wild  adventure,  pity,  immense 
hope,  tremendous  scenes  uplifted  by  a  sense  of  victory; 
though  for  others,  the  soldiers  who  did  the  dirty  work, 
brought  up  lorry  columns  through  the  mud  of  the  old 
battlefields,  far  behind  our  new  front  line,  carried  on 
still  with  the  hard  old  drudgery  of  war,  they  were  days 
not  marked  out  by  any  special  jubilation,  or  variety,  or 
hope,  but  just  like  all  the  others  that  had  gone  before 
since  first  they  came  to  France. 

I  remember  little  scenes  and  pictures  of  those  last  two 
weeks  as  they  pass  through  my  mind  like  a  film  drama; 
episodes  of  tragedy  or  triumph  which  startled  my  imagi- 
nation, a  pageantry  of  men  who  had  victory  in  their  eyes, 
single  figures  who  spoke  to  me,  told  me  unforgettable 
things,  and  the  last  dead  bodies  who  fell  at  the  very  gate 
of  Peace. 

One  of  the  last  dead  bodies  I  saw  in  the  war  was  in 
the  city  of  Valenciennes,  which  we  entered  on  the  morn- 
ing of  November  3.  Our  guns  had  spared  the  city, 
which  was  full  of  people,  but  the  railway  station  was  an 
elaborate  ruin  of  twisted  iron  and  broken  glass.  Rails 
were  torn  up  and  sleepers  burnt.  Our  airmen,  flying  low 
day  after  day  during  the  German  retreat,  had  flung  down 
bombs  which  had  torn  the  fronts  off  the  booking-offices 
and  made  match-wood  of  the  signal-boxes  and  sheds. 
For  German  soldiers  detraining  here  it  had  been  a  hellish 

102 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         103 

place,  and  the  fire  of  our  flying-men  had  been  deadly  ac- 
curate. I  walked  through  the  ruin  out  into  the  station 
square.  It  was  empty  of  all  life,  but  one  human  figure 
was  there  all  alone.  It  was  the  dead  body  of  a  young 
German  soldier,  lying  with  outstretched  arms,  on  his 
back,  in  a  pool  of  blood.  His  figure  formed  a  cross 
there  on  the  cobblestones,  and  seemed  to  me  a  symbol  of 
all  that  youth  which  had  been  sacrificed  by  powers  of 
monstrous  evil.  His  face  was  still  handsome  in  death, 
the  square,  rough-hewn  face  of  a  young  peasant. 

There  was  the  tap-tap-tap  of  a  German  machine-gun, 
somewhere  on  the  right  of  the  square.  As  I  walked  for- 
ward, all  my  senses  were  alert  to  the  menace  of  death. 
It  would  be  foolish,  I  thought,  to  be  killed  at  the  end  of 
the  war — for  surely  the  end  was  very  near?  And  then 
I  had  a  sudden  sharp  thought  that  perhaps  it  would  be 
well  if  this  happened.  Why  should  I  live  when  so  many 
had  died?  The  awful  job  was  done,  and  my  small  part 
in  it.  I  had  seen  it  through  from  start  to  finish,  for  it 
was  finished  but  for  a  few  days  of  waiting.  It  might  be 
better  to  end  with  it,  for  all  that  came  afterwards  would 
be  anti-climax.  I  remember  raising  my  head  and  look- 
ing squarely  round  at  that  staccato  hammering  of  the 
German  machine-gun,  with  an  intense  desire  that  a  bullet 
might  come  my  way.  But  I  went  on  untouched  into 
the  town.  .  .  . 

As  in  Courtrai,  a  fury  of  gun-fire  overhead  kept  the 
people  in  their  houses.  Our  field  batteries  were  firing 
over  the  city  and  the  enemy  was  answering.  Here  and 
there  I  saw  a  face  peering  out  of  a  broken  window,  and 
then  a  door  opened,  and  a  man  and  woman  appeared 
behind  it,  with  two  thin  children.  The  woman  thrust 
out  a  skinny  hand  and  grasped  mine,  and  began  to  weep. 
She  talked  passionately,  with  a  strange  mingling  of  rage 
and  grief. 


104  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"O  my  God !"  she  said,  "those  devils  have  gone  at  last ! 
What  have  they  not  made  us  suffer!  My  husband  and 
I  had  four  little  houses — we  were  innkeepers — and  last 
night  they  sent  us  to  this  part  of  the  town  and  burnt 
all  of  them."  She  used  a  queer  word  in  French.  "Last 
night,"  she  said,  "they  made  a  devil's  charivari  and  set 
many  houses  on  fire." 

Her  husband  spoke  to  me  over  his  wife's  shoulder. 

"Sir,  they  have  stolen  everything,  broken  everything, 
ground  us  down  for  four  years.  They  are  bandits  and 
robbers." 

"We  are  hungry,"  said  the  thin  little  girl. 

By  her  side  the  boy,  with  a  white  pinched  face,  echoed 
her  plaint. 

"We  have  eaten  our  bread,  and  I  am  hungry." 

They  had  some  coffee  left,  and,  asked  me  to  go  inside 
and  drink  it  with  them,  but  I  could  not  wait. 

The  woman  held  my  wrist  tight  in  her  skinnv  hands. 

"You  will  come  back?"  she  asked. 

"I  will  try,"  I  said. 

Then  she  wept  again,  and  said : 

"We  are  grateful  to  the  English  soldiers.  It  is  they 
who  saved  us." 

That  is  one  out  of  a  hundred  little  scenes  that  I  re- 
member in  those  last  two  weeks  when,  not  without  hard 
fighting,  for  the  German  machine-gun  rearguards  fought 
bravely  to  the  end,  our  troops  entered  many  towns  and 
villages,  and  liberated  many  thousands  of  poor  people. 
I  remember  the  girls  of  a  little  town  called  Bohain  who 
put  on  their  best  frocks  and  clean  pinafores  to  welcome 
us.  It  was  not  until  a  little  while  that  we  found  they 
were  starving  and  had  not  even  a  crust  of  bread  in  all 
the  town.  Then  the  enemy  started  shelling,  and  some  of 
the  girls  were  killed,  and  many  were  suffocated  by  gas: 
shells.  That  was  worse  in  St.  Amand,  by  Valenciennes, 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         105 

where  all  the  women  and  children  took  refuge  in  the 
cellars.  The  German  batteries  opened  fire  with  Yellow 
Cross  shell  as  our  guns  passed  through.  Some  of  our 
men,  and  many  of  their  horses,  lay  dead  in  the  streets  as- 
I  passed  through;  but  worse  things  happened  in  the  cel- 
lars below  the  houses.  The  heavy  gas  of  the  Yellow 
Cross  shells  filtered  down  to  where  the  women  and  their 
babies  cowered  on  their  mattresses.  They  began  to 
choke  and  gasp,  and  babies  died  in  the  arms  of  dying 
mothers.  ,  .  .  Dr.  Small,  our  American,  went  with  a 
body  of  English  doctors  and  nurses  to  the  rescue  of  St. 
Amand.  "I've  seen  bad  things,"  he  told  me.  "I  am 
not  weak  in  the  stomach — but  I  saw  things  in  those  cel- 
lars which  nearly  made  me  vomit." 

He  put  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  blinked  at  me 
through  his  glasses. 

"It's  no  good  cursing  the  Germans.  As  soon  as  your 
troops  entered  the  village  they  had  a  right  to  shelL 
That's  war.  We  should  do  the  same.  War's  war.  I've 
been  cursing  the  Germans  in  elaborate  and  eccentric 
language.  It  did  me  good.  I  feel  all  the  better  for  it. 
But  all  the  same  I  was  wrong.  It's  war  we  ought  to 
curse.  Waj  which  makes  these  things  possible  among 
civilised  peoples.  It's  just  devilry.  Civilised  people 
must  give  up  the  habit.  They  must  get  cured  of  it 
You  have  heard  of  typhoid-carriers?  They  are  people 
infected  with  the  typhoid  microbe  who  spread  the  disease. 
When  peace  comes  we  must  hunt  down  the  war-carriers, 
isolate  them,  and,  if  necessary,  kill  them." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  me  and  went  off  in  an  ambulance 
filled  with  suffocated  women. 

I  met  Brand  in  Valenciennes  five  days  after  our  libera- 
tion of  the  city,  when  our  troops  were  making  their 
formal  entry  with  band  and  banners.  He  came  up  to 
me  and  said,  "Have  you  heard  the  news?"  I  saw  by  his 


106  WOUNDED  SOULS 

face  that  it  was  good  news,  and  I  felt  my  heart  give  a 
lurch  when  I  answered  him. 

"Tell  me  the  best." 

"Germany  is  sending  plenipotentiaries,  under  a  white 
[flag,  to  Foch.  They  know  it  is  unconditional  surrender. 
.  .  .  And  the  Kaiser  has  abdicated." 

I  drew  a  deep  breath.  Something  seemed  to  lift  from 
my  soul.  The  sky  seemed  to  become  brighter,  as  though 
a  shadow  had  passed  from  the  face  of  the  sun. 

"Then  it's  the  end?  .  .  .  The  last  battle  has  been 
fought!" 

Brand  was  staring  at  a  column  of  troops — all  young 
fellows  of  the  4th  Division.  His  eyes  were  glistening, 
with  moisture  in  them. 

"Reprieved!"  he  said.  "The  last  of  our  youth  is, 
saved !" 

He  turned  to  me  suddenly,  and  spoke  in  the  deepest 
melancholy. 

"You  and  I  ought  to  be  dead.  So  many  kids  were 
killed.  We've  no  right  to  be  alive." 

"Perhaps  there  is  other  work  to  do,"  I  answered  him, 
jveakly,  because  I  had  the  same  thought. 

He  did  not  seem  sure  of  that. 

"I  wonder!  ...  If  we  could  help  to  save  the  next 
generation " 

In  the  Place  d'Armes  of  Valenciennes  there  was  a 
great  crowd,  and  many  of  our  Generals  and  Staff  officers 
on  the  steps  and  below  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
Brand  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  Colonel  Lavington, 
looking  very  gallant  and  debonair,  as  usual.  Beside  him 
was  Charles  Fortune,  with  his  air  of  a  Staff-officer  dread- 
fully overworked  in  the  arrangement  of  victory,  modest 
in  spite  of  his  great  achievements,  deprecating  any  public 
homage  that  might  be  paid  him.  This  careful  mask  of 
his  was  slightly  disarranged  for  a  moment  when  he 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         107 

winked  at  me  under  the  very  nose  of  the  great  General 
whom  he  had  set  to  music — "Blear-eyed  Bill,  the  Boche- 
Breaker,"  who  stood  magnificent  with  his  great  chest  em- 
blazoned with  ribbons.  The  Prince  of  Wales  was  there, 
shifting  from  one  leg  to  another,  chatting  gaily  with  a 
group  of  Staff-officers.  A  bevy  of  French  girls  ad- 
vanced with  enormous  bouquets  and  presented  them  to 
the  Prince  and  his  fellow-officers.  The  Prince  laughed 
and  blushed,  like  a  schoolboy,  sniffed  at  the  flowers,  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with  them.  The  other  officers  held 
the  bouquets  with  equal  embarrassment,  with  that  strange 
English  shyness  which  not  even  war  could  -cure. 

Some  officers  close  to  me  were  talking  of  the  German 
plea  for  Armistice. 

"It's  abject  surrender!"  said  one  of  them. 

"The  end!"  said  another,  very  solemnly.  "Thank 
God." 

"The  end  of  a  dirty  business !"  said  a  young  machine- 
gun  officer.  I  noticed  that  he  had  three  wound-stripes. 

One  of  them,  holding  a  big  bouquet,  began  to  dance, 
pointing  his  toes,  cutting  abbreviated  capers  in  a  small 
space  among  his  comrades. 

"Not  too  quick  for  me,  old  dears!  Back  to  peace 
again!  .  .  .  Back  to  life!  Hooray!" 

The  colours  of  many  flags  fluttered  upon  the  gables  of 
the  Place  d'Armes,  and  the  balconies  were  draped  with 
the  Tricolour,  the  Union  Jack,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 
Old  citizens  wore  tall  hats  saved  up  for  this  day,  and 
girls  had  taken  their  lace  from  hiding-places  where  the 
Germans  had  not  found  it,  and  wore  it  round  their  necks 
and  wrists  for  the  honour  of  this  day.  Old  women  in 
black  bonnets  sat  in  the  centre  of  window-places  and 
clapped  their  hands — their  wrinkled,  hard-working  old 
hands — to  every  British  soldier  who  passed,  and  thou- 
sands were  passing.  Nobody  heard  a  word  of  the 


108  WOUNDED  SOULS 

speeches  spoken  from  the  Town  Hall  steps,  the  tribute 
of  the  councillors  of  Valenciennes  to  the  glory  of  the 
troops  who  had  rescued  their  people  from  servitude  under 
a  ruthless  enemy,  nor  the  answer  of  Sir  Henry  Home, 
the  Army  Commander,  expressing  the  pride  of  his  sol- 
diers in  the  rescue  of  that  fair  old  city,  and  their  admira- 
tion for  the  courage  of  its  people.  Every  word  was 
overwhelmed  by  cheering.  Then  the  pipers  of  a  High- 
land division,  whose  fighting  I  had  recorded  through 
their  years  of  heroic  endurance,  played  a  march  tune, 
and  the  music  of  those  pipes  was  loud  in  the  square  of 
•Valenciennes  and  in  the  hearts  of  its  people.  The  troops 
marched  past,  and  thousands  of  bayonets  shone  above 
their  steel  helmets.  . 


XVI 

WAS  in  Mons  on  the  day  of  Armistice,  and  on  the 
•*•  roads  outside  when  I  heard  the  news  that  the  Ger- 
mans had  surrendered  to  all  our  terms,  and  that  the 
"Cease  Fire"  would  sound  at  eleven  o'clock.  It  was  a 
misty  morning,  with  sunlight  glinting  through  the  mist 
and  sparkling  in  the  coppery  leaves  of  autumn  trees. 
There  was  no  heavy  bombardment  in  progress  round 
Mons — only  now  and  then  the  sullen  bark  of  a  gun.  The 
roads  were  crowded  with  the  usual  transport  of  war- 
endless  columns  of  motor-lorries  and  horse-wagons,  and 
mule-teams,  crawling  slowly  forward,  and  infantry  bat- 
talions trudging  alongside,  with  their  heavy  packs.  I 
stared  into  the  faces  of  the  marching  men,  expecting  to 
see  joy  in  their  eyes,  wondering  why  they  were  not 
singing — because  to-day  the  guns  would  be  silent  and 
the  fighting  finished.  Their  packs  weighed  heavy.  The 
mud  from  passing  lorries  splashed  them  with  great  gobs 
of  filth.  Under  their  steel  hats  the  sweat  ran  down. 
They  looked  dead-beat,  and  marched  in  a  grim  line  of 
tired  men.  But  I  noticed  that  the  transport  wagons  were 
decorated  with  small  flags,  and  these  bits  of  fluttering 
colour  were  stuck  into  the  harness  of  gun-horses  and 
mules.  From  the  other  way  came  another  tide  of  traffic 
— crowds  of  civilians,  who  were  middle-aged  men  and 
boys,  and  here  and  there  women  pushing  hand-carts,  and 
straining  forward  with  an  eager,  homing  look.  The  men 
and  boys  were  carrying  bundles,  too  heavy  for  many  of 
them,  so  that  they  were  bent  under  their  burdens.  But 

109 


110  WOUNDED  SOULS 

each  one  had  added  the  last  straw  but  one  to  his  weight 
by  fastening  a  flag  to  his  bundle  or  his  cap.  I  spoke  to 
some  of  them,  and  they  told  me  that  they  were  the 
civilians  from  Lille,  Valenciennes,  and  other  towns,  who 
had  been  taken  away  by  the  Germans  for  forced  labour 
behind  the  lines.  Two  days  ago  the  Germans  had  said, 
"We've  no  more  use  for  you.  Get  back  to  your  own 
people.  The  war  is  over." 

They  looked  worn  and  haggard,  like  men  who  had 
been  shipwrecked.  Some  of  the  boys  were  weak,  and 
sat  down  on  the  roadside  with  their  bundles,  and  could 
go  no  farther.  Others  trudged  on  gamely,  with  crooks 
which  they  had  cut  from  the  hedges,  and  only  stopped  to 
cry  "Vivent  les  Anglais!"  as  our  soldiers  passed.  I 
looked  into  many  of  their  faces,  remembering  the  photo- 
graph of  Edouard  Cheri  which  had  been  given  to  me  by 
his  mother.  Perhaps  he  was  somewhere  in  those  troops 
of  homing  exiles.  But  he  might  have  been  any  one 
of  those  lanky  boys  in  ragged  jackets  and  broken  boots, 
and  cloth  caps  pulled  down  over  the  ears. 

Just  outside  Mons,  at  one  minute  to  eleven  o'clock, 
there  was  a  little  desultory  firing.  Then,  a  bugle  blew, 
somewhere  in  a  distant  field,  one  long  note.  It  was  the 
"Cease  Fire!"  A  cheer  coming  faintly  over  the  fields 
followed"  the  bugle-call.  Then  there  was  no  other 
sound  where  I  stood  but  the  scrunching  of  wheels  of  gun- 
limbers  and  transport-wagons,  the  squelch  of  mud  in 
which  horses  and  mules  trudged,  and  the  hard  breathing 
of  tired  men  marching  by  und,er  their  packs.  So,  with  a 
curious  lack  of  drama,  the  Great  Adventure  ended! 
That  bugle  had  blown  the  "Cease  Fire !"  of  a  strife  which 
had  filled  the  world  with  agony  and  massacre;  destroyed 
millions  of  men;  broken  millions  of  lives;  ruined  many 
great  cities  and  thousands  of  hamlets,  and  left  a  long 
wide  belt  of  country  across  Europe  where  no  tree  re- 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         111 

mained  alive  and  all  the  earth  was  ravaged ;  crowded  the 
world  with  maimed  men,  blind  men,  mad  men,  diseased 
men;  flung  Empires  into  anarchy,  where  hunger  killed 
the  children  and  women  had  no  milk  to  feed  their  babes ; 
and  bequeathed  to  all  fighting  nations  a  heritage  of  debt 
beneath  which  many  would  stagger  and  fall.  It  was  the 
"Cease  Fire !"  of  all  that  reign  of  death,  but  sounded  very 
faintly  across  the  fields  of  France. 

In  Mons  Canadian  soldiers  were  being  kissed  by 
French  girls.  Women  were  giving  them  wine  in  door- 
ways, and  these  hard-bitten  fellows,  tough  as  leather, 
reckless  of  all  risk,  plastered  with  mud  which  had  worn 
into  their  skins  and  souls,  drank  the  wine  and  kissed  the 
women,  and  lurched  laughing  down  the  streets.  There 
would  be  no  strict  discipline  in  Mons  that  night.  They 
had  had  enough  of  discipline  in  the  dirty  days.  Let  it 
go  on  the  night  of  Armistice !  Already  at  midday  some 
of  these  soldiers  were  unable  to  walk  except  with  an 
arm  round  a  comrade's  neck,  or  round  the  neck  of  strong 
peasant  girls  who  screeched  with  laughter  when  they  side- 
slipped, or  staggered.  They  had  been  through  hell,  those 
men.  They  had  lain  in  ditches,  under  frightful  fire, 
among  dead  men,  and  bleeding  men.  Who  would  grudge, 
them  their  bit  of  fun  on  Armistice  night?  Who  would 
expect  saintship  of  men  who  had  been  taught  in  the 
school  of  war,  taught  to  kill  quick  lest  they  be  killed,  to 
see  the  worst  horrors  of  the  battlefield  without  going 
weak,  to  educate  themselves  out  of  the  refinements  of 
peaceful  life  where  Christian  virtues  are  easy  and  not 
meant  for  war? 

"Come  here,  lassie.  None  of  your  French  tricks  for 
me.  I'm  Canadian-born.  It's  a  kiss  or  a  clout  from 
me." 

The  man  grabbed  the  girl  by  the  arm  and  drew  her 
into  a  barn. 


112  WOUNDED  SOULS 

On  the  night  of  Armistice  in  Mons,  where,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  war,  the  Old  Contemptibles  had  first  with- 
stood the  shock  of  German  arms  (I  saw  their  ghosts 
there  in  the  market-place),  there  would  be  the  devil  to 
pay — the  devil  of  war,  who  plays  on  the  passions  of 
men,  and  sets  his  trap  for  women's  souls.  But  I  went 
away  from  Mons  before  nightfall,  and  travelled  back  to 
Lille,  in  the  little  old  car  which  had  gone  to  many  strange 
places  with  me. 

How  quiet  it  was  in  the  open  countryside  when  dark- 
ness fell !  The  guns  were  quiet  at  last,  after  four  years 
and  more  of  labour.  There  were  no  fires  in  the  sky,  no 
ruddy  glow  of  death.  I  listened  to  the  silence  which 
followed  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  and  heard  the 
rustling  of  the  russet  leaves  and  the  little  sounds  of  night 
in  peace,  and  it  seemed  as  though  God  gave  a  benedic- 
tion to  the  wounded  soul  of  the  world.  Other  sounds 
rose  from  the  towns  and  fields  in  the  deepening  shadow- 
world  of  the  day  of  Armistice.  They  were  sounds  of 
human  joy.  Men  were  singing  somewhere  on  the  roads, 
and  their  voices  rang  out  gladly.  Bugles  were  playing. 
In  villages  from  which  the  enemy  had  gone  out  that 
morning  round  about  Mons  crowds  of  figures  surged  in 
the  narrow  streets,  and  English  laughter  rose  above  the 
chatter  of  women  and  children. 


XVII 

WHEN  I  came  into  Lille  rockets  were  rising  above 
the  city.  English  soldiers  were  firing  off  Verey 
lights.  Above  the*  houses  of  the  city  in  darkness  rose 
also  gusts  of  cheering.  It  is  strange  that  when  I  heard 
them  I  felt  like  weeping.  They  sounded  rather  ghostly, 
like  the  voices  of  all  the  dead  who  had  fallen  before  this 
night  of  Armistice. 

I  went  to  my  billet  at  Madame  Cheri's  house,  from 
which  I  had  been  absent  some  days.  I  had  the  key  of 
the  front  door  now,  and  let  myself  into  the  hall.  The 
dining-room  door  was  open,  and  I  heard  the  voices  of 
the  little  French  family,  laughing,  crying,  hysterical. 
Surely  hysterical! 

efO  mon  Dieu!  O  mon  petit  Toto!  Comme  tu  es 
grandi!  Comme  tu  es  meagre!" 

I  stood  outside  the  door,  understanding  the  thing  that 
had  happened. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  tall,  gaunt  boy  in 
ragged  clothes,  in  the  embrace  of  Madame  Cheri,  and 
with  one  hand  clutched  by  Helene,  and  the  other  by  the 
little  Madeleine,  her  sister.  It  was  Edouard  who  had 
come  back. 

He  had  unloosed  a  pack  from  his  shoulder,  and  it  lay 
on  the  carpet  beside  him,  with  a  little  flag  on  a  broken 
stick.  He  was  haggard,  with  high  cheek-bones  promi- 
nent through  his  white,  tightly-drawn  skin,  and  his  eyes 
were  sunk  in  deep  sockets.  His  hair  was  in  a  wild  mop 
of  black,  disordered  locks.  He  stood  there,  with  tears 

"3 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

streaming  from  his  eyes,  and  the  only  words  he  said 
were: 

"Maman!     O  niamcen!  mamanl" 

I  went  quietly  upstairs,  and  changed  my  clothes,  which! 
were  all  muddy.  Presently  there  was  a  tap  at  my  door, 
and  Helene  stood  there,  transfigured  with  joy.  She 
spoke  in  French. 

"Edouard  has  come  back !  My  brother !  He  travelled 
on  an  English  lorry." 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  I  said.  "What  gladness  for 
you  all!" 

"He  has  grown  tall,"  said  Helene.  She  mopped  her 
eyes  and  laughed  and  cried  at  the  same  time.  "Tall  as 
a  giant,  but  oh,  so  thin !  They  starved  him  all  the  time. 
He  fed  only  on  cabbages.  They  put  him  to  work  dig- 
ging trenches  behind  the  line — under  fire.  The  brutes* 
The  devils!" 

Her  eyes  were  lit  up  by  passion  at  the  thought  of  this 
cruelty  and  her  brother's  suffering.  Then  her  expression- 
changed  to  a  look  of  pride. 

"He  says  he  is  glad  to  have  been  under  fire — like 
father.  He  hated  it,  though,  at  the  time,  and  said  he 
was  frightened !  I  can't  believe  that.  Edouard  was  al- 
ways brave." 

"There's  no  courage  that  takes  away  the  fear  of  shell- 
fire — as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  I  told  her,  but  she  only 
laughed  and  said,  "You  men  make  a  pose  of  being  afraid." 

She  spoke  of  Edouard  again,  hugging  the  thought  of 
his  return. 

"If  only  he  were  not  so  thin,  and  so  tired.  I  find  him 
changed.  The  poor  boy  cries  at  the  sight  of  maman — 
like  a  baby." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  I  said.  "I  should  feel  like  that  if 
I  had  been  a  prisoner  of  war,  and  was  now  home  again." 

Madame  Cheri's  voice  called  from  downstairs : 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         115 

"Helene!    Du  es-tu?    Edouard  veut  te  voirf 

"Edouard  wants  me,"  said  Helene. 

She  seemed  rejoiced  at  the  thought  that  Edouard  had 
missed  her,  even  for  this  minute.  She  took  my  hand 
and  kissed  it,  as  though  wishing  me  to  share  her  joy, 
and  to  be  part  of  it;  and  then  ran  downstairs. 


XVIII 

I  WENT  out  to  the  Officers'  Club  which  had  been 
established  in  Lille,  and  found  Brand  there,  and 
Fortune,  and  young1  Clatworthy,  who  made  a  place  for 
me  at  their  table. 

Two  large  rooms  which  had  been  the  dining-  and 
drawing-rooms  of  a  private  mansion,  were  crowded,  with 
officers,  mostly  English,  but  with  here  and  there  a  few 
Americans  and  French,  seated  at  small  tables,  waited 
on  by  the  girls  we  call  Waacs  (of  the  Women's  Army 
Auxiliary  Corps).  Two  old-fashioned  candelabra  of 
cut-glass  gave  light  to  each  room,  and  I  remember  that 
the  walls  were  panelled  with  wood  painted  a  greyish- 
white,  below  a  moulding  of  fruit  and  flowers.  Above  the 
table  where  my  friends  sat  was  the  portrait  of  a  French 
lady  of  the  eighteenth  century,  in  an  oval  frame  of  tar- 
nished gilt. 

I  was  late  for  the  meal  on  Armistice  night,  and  many 
bottles  of  champagne  had  already  been  opened  and  drunk. 
The  atmosphere  reeked  with  the  smell  of  food,  the  fumes 
of  wine  and  cigarette-smoke,  and  there  was  the  noise  of 
many  men  talking  and  laughing.  I  looked  about  the 
tables  and  saw  familiar  faces.  There  were  a  good  many 
cavalry  officers  in  the  room  where  I  sat,  and  among  them 
officers  of  the  Guards  and  the  Tank  Corps,  aviators, 
machine-gunners,  staff-officers  of  infantry  divisions, 
French  interpreters,  American  liaison  officers,  A.P.M.'s, 
Town  Majors,  and  others.  The  lid  was  off  at  last.  All 
these  men  were  intoxicated  with  the  thought  of  the  vic- 

116 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         117 

tory  we  had  won — complete,  annihilating — and  of  this 
Armistice  which  had  ended  the  war  and  made  them 
sure  of  life.  Some  of  them  were  a  little  drunk  with  wine, 
but  not  enough  at  this  hour  to  spoil  their  sense  of  joy. 

Officers  rose  at  various  tables  to  make  speeches, 
cheered  by  their  own  groups,  who  laughed  and  shouted 
and  did  not  listen. 

"The  good  old  British  Army  has  done  the  trick  at 
last " 

"The  old  Hun  is  down  and  out." 

"Gentlemen,  it  has  been  a  damned  tough  job " 

Another  group  had  burst  into  song. 

"Here's  to  good  old  beer,  put  it  down,  put  it  down!" 

"The  cavalry  came  into  its  own  in  the  last  lap.  We've 
fought  mounted,  and  fought  dismounted.  We've  round- 
ed up  innumerable  Huns.  We've  ridden  down  machine- 
guns " 

Another  group  was  singing  independently : 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 
To  the  land  of  my  dreams." 

A  toast  was  being  pledged  at  the  next  table  by  a  Tank 
officer  who  stood  on  a  chair,  with  a  glass  of  champagne 
raised  high  above  his  head : 

"Gentlemen,  I  give  you  the  toast  of  the  Tank  Corps. 
This  war  was  won  by  the  Tanks " 

"Pull  him  down !"  shouted  two  lads  at  the  same  table. 
"Tanks  be  damned!  It  was  the  poor  old  bloody  infan- 
try, all  the  time." 

One  of  them  pulled  down  the  little  Tank  officer  with 
a  crash,  and  stood  on  his  own  chair. 

"Here's  to  the  foot-sloggers — the  infantry  battalions, 
Tommy  Atkins  and  his  company  officer,  who  did  all  the 
dirty  work,  and  got  none  of  the  kudos,  and  did  most  of 
the  dying." 


118  WOUNDED  SOULS 

A  cavalry  officer  with  a  monocle  immovably  screwed  in 
his  right  eye  demanded  the  attention  of  the  company, 
and  failed  to  get  it. 

"We  all  know  what  we  have  done  ourselves,  and  what 
we  failed  to  do.  I  give  you  the  toast  of  our  noble  Allies, 
without  whom  there  would  be  no  Armistice  to-night.  I 
drink  to  the  glory  of  France " 

The  words  were  heard  at  several  tables,  and  for  once 
there  was  a  general  acknowledgment  of  the  toast. 

"Vive  la  France!'' 

The  shout  thundered  out  from  all  the  tables,  so  that 
the  candelabra  rattled.  Five  French  interpreters  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  room  rose  to  respond. 

There  were  shouts  of  "The  Stars  and  Stripes — good 
old  Yanks — Well  done,  the  U.S.A. !"  and  I  was  sorry 
Dr.  Small  was  still  at  Valenciennes.  I  should  like  him 
to  have  heard  those  shouts.  An  American  staff-officer 
.was  on  his  feet,  raising  his  glass  to  "England." 

Charles  Fortune  stood  up  at  my  table.  He  reminded 
me  exceedingly  at  that  moment  of  old  prints  portraying 
George  IV.  in  his  youth — "the  First  Gentleman  of  Eu- 
rope"— slightly  flushed,  with  an  air  of  noble  dignity,  and 
a  roguish  eye. 

"Go  to  it,  Fortune,"  said  Brand.  "Nobody's  listening, 
so  you  can  say  what  you  like." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Fortune,  "I  venture  to  propose  the 
health  of  our  late  enemy,  the  Germans." 

Young  Clatworthy  gave  an  hysterical  guffaw. 

"We  owe  them  a  very  great  debt,"  said  Fortune.  "But 
for  their  simplicity  of  nature  and  amiability  of  character, 
the  British  Empire — that  glorious  conglomeration  of 
races  upon  which  the  sun  utterly  declines  to  set — would 
have  fallen  into  decay  and  debility,  as  a  second-class 
Power.  Before  the  war  the  German  Empire  was  gain- 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         119 

ing  our  trade,  capturing  all  the  markets  of  the  world, 
waiting  at  table  in  all  the  best  hotels,  and  providing  all 
the  music  in  the  cafes-chantants  of  the  universe.  .  .  . 
With  that  immense  unselfishness  so  characteristic  of  their 
race,  the  Germans  threw  away  these  advantages  and; 
sacrificed  themselves  for  the  benefit  of  the  British.  By 
declaring  war  they  enabled  all  the  ancient  virtues  of 
our  race  to  be  revived.  Generals  sprang  up  in  every 
direction — especially  in  Whitehall,  Boulogne  and  Rouen. 
Staff-officers  multiplied  exceedingly.  British  indigestion 
— the  curse  of  our  race — became  subject  to  a  Sam  Brown 
belt.  Business  men,  mostly  bankrupt,  were  enriched 
enormously.  Clergymen  thundered  joyfully  from  their 
pulpits  and  went  back  to  the  Old  Testament  for  that  fine 
old  law,  'An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.'  Elderly 
virgins  married  the  youngest  subalterns.  The  youngest 
flapper  caught  the  eldest  and  wiliest  of  bachelors.  Our 
people  were  revivified,  gentlemen — revivified " 

"Go  easy,"  growled  Brand.  "This  is  not  a  night  for 
irony." 

"Even  I,"  said  Charles  Fortune,  with  a  sob  of  pride 
in  his  voice,  "Even  I,  a  simple  piano-tuner,  a  man  of 
music,  a  child  of  peace  and  melody — Shut  up,  Brand! — 
became  Every  Inch  a  Soldier  I" 

He  drew  himself  up  in  a  heroic  pose  and,  raising  his 
glass,  cried  out: 

"Here's  to  our  late  enemy — poor  old  Fritz !" 

A  number  of  glasses  were  raised  amidst  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"Here's  to  Fritz — and  may  the  Kaiser  roast  at  Christ- 
mas!" 

"And  they  say  we  haven't  a  sense  of  humour!"  said 
Charles  Fortune,  modestly,  and  opened  a  new  bottle  of 
champagne. 

Brand  had  a  sense  of  humour,  and  had  laughed  during 


120  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Fortune's  oration,  knowing  that  beneath  its  mockery 
there  was  no  malice.  But  I  noticed  that  he  had  no  spon- 
taneous gaiety  on  this  night  of  Armistice  and  sat  rather 
silent,  with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes,  and  that  hag- 
ridden melancholy  of  his. 

Young  Clatworthy  was  between  me  and  Brand,  drink- 
ing too  heavily,  I  thought.  Brand  thought  so  too,  and 
gave  him  a  word  of  caution. 

"That  champagne  is  pretty  bad.  I'd  'ware  headaches, 
if  I  were  you,  young  'un." 

"It's  good  enough,"  said  Clatworthy.  "Anything  to 
put  me  in  the  right  spirit." 

There  was  an  unnatural  glitter  in  his  eyes;  and  he 
laughed,  too  easily,  at  any  joke  of  Fortune's.  Presently 
he  turned  his  attention  to  me,  and  began  talking,  ex- 
citedly, in  a  low  monologue. 

"Funny  to  think  it's  the  last  night!  Can  you  believe 
it?  It  seems  a  lifetime  since  I  came  out  in  '14.  I  re- 
member the  first  night,  when  I  was  sent  up  to  Ypres  to 
take  the  place  of  a  subaltern  who'd  been  knocked  out.  It 
was  Christmas  Eve,  and  my  battalion  was  up  in  the  line 
round  Hooge.  I  detrained  at  Vlamertinghe.  'Can  any 
one  tell  me  the  way  to  Hooge?'  I  asked  one  of  the  traffic 
men.  Just  like  a  country  cousin  at  Piccadilly  Circus. 
He  looked  at  me  in  a  queer  way,  and  said,  'It's  the  same 
way  to  Hell,  sir.  Straight  on  until  you  get  to  Ypres, 
then  out  of  the  Menin  gate  and  along  the  road  to  Hell-fire 
Corner.  After  that  you  trust  to  luck.  Some  young  gen- 
tlemen never  get  no  further.'  I  damned  his  impertinence 
and  went  on,  till  I  came  to  the  Grande  Place  in  Ypres, 
where  I  just  missed  an  eight-inch  shell.  It  knocked  out 
a  gun-team.  Shocking  mess  it  made.  'The  same  way 
to  Hell,'  I  kept  saying,  until  I  fell  into  a  shell-hole  along 
the  Menin  Road.  But,  d'you  know,  the  fellow  was 
wrong,  after  all !" 


"How?"  I  asked. 

Young  Clatworthy  drank  up  his  wine,  and  laughed,  as 
though  very  much  amused. 

"Why,  that  wasn't  the  way  to  Hell.  It  was  the  other 
way." 

I  was  puzzled  at  his  meaning,  and  wondered  if  he  were 
really  drunk. 

"What  other  way?" 

"Behind  the  lines — in  the  back  areas.  I  should  have 
been  all  right  if  I  had  stuck  in  the  trenches.  It  was  in 
places  like  Amiens  that  I  went  to  the  devil." 

"Not  as  bad  as  that,"  I  said. 

"Mind  you,"  he  continued,  lighting  a  cigarette  and 
smiling  at  the  flame,  "I've  had  pleasant  times  in  this  war, 
between  the  bad  ones,  and,  afterwards,  in  this  cushie  job. 
Extraordinarily  amusing  and  agreeable,  along  the  way  to 
Hell.  There  was  little  Marguerite  in  Amiens — such  a 
kid!  Funny  as  a  kitten!  She  loved  me  not  wisely  but 
too  well.  I  had  just  come  down  from  the  Somme  battles 
then.  That  little  idyll  with  Marguerite  was  like  a  dream. 
We  two  were  Babes  in  the  Wood.  We  plucked  the  flow- 
ers of  life,  and  didn't  listen  to  the  howling  of  the  wolves 
beyond  the  forest." 

He  jerked  his  head  up  and  listened,  and  repeated  the 
words : 

"The  howling  of  the  wolves!" 

Somebody  was  singing  "John  Peel" : 

"D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay, 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  day, 
D'ye  ken  John  Peel  when  he's  far,  far  away 
With  his  horn  and  his  hounds  in  the  morning?' 

Cyril  Clatworthy  was  on  his  feet,  joining  in  the  chorus, 
with  a  loud  joyous  voice. 

"We'll  follow  John  Peel  through  fair  and  through  foul, 
If  we  want  a  good  hunt  in  the  morning!" 


122  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"Bravo!     Bravo!" 

He»  laughed  as  he  sat  down. 

"I  used  to  sing  that  when  I  was  Captain  of  the 
School,"  he  said.  "A  long  time  ago,  eh?  How  many 
centuries?  ...  I  was  as  clean  a  fellow  as  you'd  meet 
in  those  days.  Keen  as  mustard  on  cricket.  Some  15al^ 
too!  That  was  before  the  dirty  war,  and  the  stinking1 
trenches;  and  fever,  and  lice,  and  dead  bodies,  and  all 
that.  But  I  was  telling  you  about  Yvonne,  wasn't  I?" 

"Marguerite,"  I  reminded  him. 

"No.  Yvonne.  I  met  her  at  Cassel.  A  brown-eyed 
thing.  Demure.  You  know  the  type?  .  .  .  One  of  the 
worst  little  sluts  I  ever  met.  Oh,  a  wicked  little  witch ! 
.  .  .  Well,  I  paid  for  that  affair.  That  policeman  was 
wrong." 

"What  policeman?"  I  asked. 

"The  traffic  man  at  Vlamertinghe.  'It's  the  same  way 
to  Hell,'  he  said,  meaning  Hooge.  It  was  the  other  way, 
really.  All  the  same,  I've  had  some  good  hours.  And 
now  it's  Armistice  night.  .  .  .  Those  fellows  are  getting 
rather  blue,  aren't  they?  It's  the  blinking  cavalry  who 
used  to  get  in  the  way  of  the  infantry,  blocking  up  the 
roads  with  their  ridiculous  horses  and  their  preposterous 
lances.  Look  here,  old  man ;  there's  one  thing  I  want  to 
know.  Tell  me,  as  a  wise  owl." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked,  laughing  at  his  deference  to 
my  wisdom. 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  clean  enough  for  Peace?" 

"Clean  enough?" 

I  could  not  follow  the  drift  of  his  question,  and  he 
tried  to  explain  himself. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  soap-and-water  business.  But 
morally,  spiritually,  intellectually,  and  all  that?  Some  of 
us  will  want  a  lot  of  scrubbing  before  we  sit  down  in  our 
nice  little  Christian  families,  somewhere  at  Wimbledon 


THE  END  OF  JHE  ADVENTURE 

or  Ealing.  Somehow,  I  funk  Peace.  It  means  getting 
back  again  to  where  one  started,  and  I  don't  see  how 
it's  possible.  .  .  .  Good  Lord,  what  tripe  I've  been  talk- 
ing!" 

He  pulled  the  bow  of  one  of  the  "Waacs"  and  undid 
her  apron. 

"Encore  une  bouteille  de  champagne,  mademoiselle!" 
he  said  in  his  best  French,  and  started  singing  "La  Mar- 
seillaise/' Some  of  the  officers  were  dancing  the  Fox 
Trot  and  the  Bunny  Hug. 

Brand  rose  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

"Armistice  night!"  he  said.  "Thank  God,  there's  a 
crowd  of  fellows  left  to  do  the  dancing.  ...  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  the  others." 

He  touched  a  glass  with  his  lips  to  a  silent  toast,  and 
I  saw  that  he  drank  to  ghosts.  Then  he  put  the  glass 
down  and  laid  his  hand  on  Clatworthy's  shoulder. 

"Care   for  a   stroll?"    he  said.     "This   room   is   too 

foggy-" 

"Not  I,  old  lad,"  said  the  boy.  "This  is  Armistice 
Night — and  the  end  of  the  adventure.  See  it  through!" 

Brand  shook  his  head  and  said  he  must  breathe  fresh 
air.  Fortune  was  playing  a  Brahms  concerto  in  the  style 
of  a  German  master,  on  the  table-cloth. 

I  followed  Brand,  and  we  strolled  through  the  dark 
streets  of  Lille,  and  did  not  talk.  In  each  of  our  minds 
was  the  stupendous  thought  that  it  was  the  last  night  of 
the  war — the  end  of  the  adventure,  as  young  Clatworthy 
'had  said.  God!  It  had  been  a  frightful  adventure, 
from  first  to  last — a  fiery  furnace  in  which  youth  had 
been  burnt  up  like  grass.  How  much  heroism  we  had 
seen,  how  much  human  agony,  ruin,  hate,  cruelty,  love  ? 
There  had  been  comradeship  and  laughter  in  queer 
places  and  perilous  hours.  Comradeship — perhaps  that 
jvas  the  best  of  all:  the  unselfish  comradeship  of  men. 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

[But  what  a  waste  of  life!  What  a  lowering  of  civilisa- 
tion! Our  heritage — what  was  it,  after  victory?  Who 
would  heal  the  wounds  of  the  world? 

Brand  suddenly  spoke,  after  our  long  tramp  in  the 
darkness,  past  windows  from  which  came  music,  and 
singing,  and  shouts  of  laughter.  He  uttered  only  one 
word,  but  all  his  soul  was  in  it. 

"Peace!" 

That  night  we  went  to  see  Eileen  O'Connor  and  to 
enquire  after  the  girl  Marthe.  Next  day  Pierre  Nesle 
was  coming  to  find  his  sister. 


XIX 

EILEEN  O'CONNOR  had  gone  back  from  the  con- 
vent- to  the  rooms  she  had  before  her  trial  and 
imprisonment.  I  was  glad  to  see  her  in  a  setting  less 
austere  than  the  white-washed  parlour  in  which  she  had 
first  received  us.  There  was  something  of  her  character 
in  the  sitting-room  where  she  had  lived  so  long  during 
the  war,  and  where  with  her  girl-friends  she  had  done 
more  dangerous  work  than  studying  the  elements  of 
drawing  and  painting.  In  that  setting,  too,  she  looked 
at  home — "The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,"  by  Lavery,  as  I  saw 
her  in  my  mind's  eye,  when  she  sat  in  a  low  arm-chair 
by  the  side  of  a  charcoal  stove,  with  the  lamplight  on 
her  face  and  hair  and  her  dress  shadowy.  She  wore  a 
black  dress  of  some  kind,  with  a  tiny  edge  of  lace  about 
the  neck  and  a  string  of  coloured  beads  so  long  that  she 
twisted  it  about  her  fingers  in  her  lap.  The  room  was 
small,  but  cosy  in  the  light  of  a  tall  lamp,  on  an  iron 
stand,  shaded  with  red  silk.  Like  all  the  rooms  I  had 
seen  in  Lille — not  many — this  was  panelled,  with  a  pol- 
ished floor,  bare  except  for  one  rug.  On  the  walls  were 
a  few  etchings  framed  in  black — London  views  mostly — - 
and  some  water-colour  drawings  of  girls'  heads,  charm- 
ingly done,  I  thought.  They  were  her  own  studies  of 
some  of  her  pupils  and  friends,  and  one  face  especially 
attracted  me,  because  of  its  delicate  and  spiritual  beauty. 

"That  was  my  fellow-prisoner,"  said  Eileen  O'Connor. 
"Alice  de  Villers-Auxicourt.  She  died  before  the 
trial.  Happily,  because  she  had  no  fear." 

I  noticed  one  other  thing  in  the  room  which  was  pleas- 
es 


120  WOUNDED  SOULS 

ant  to  see — an  upright  piano,  and  upon  a  stool  by  its  side 
a  pile  of  old  songs  which  I  turned  over  one  by  one  as 
we  sat  talking.  They  were  English  and  Irish,  mostly 
from  the  I7th  century  onwards,  but  among  them  I  found 
some  German  songs,  and  on  each  cover  was  written  the 
name  of  Franz  von  Kreuzenach.  At  the  sight  of  that 
name  I  had  a  foolish  sense  of  embarrassment  and  dis- 
may, as  though  I  had  discovered  a  skeleton  in  a  cup- 
board, and  I  slipped  them  hurriedly  between  other  sheets. 

Eileen  was  talking  to  Wickham  Brand.  She  did  not 
notice  my  confusion.  She  was  telling  him  that  Marthe, 
Pierre's  sister,  was  seriously  ill  with  something  like 
brain-fever.  The  girl  had  regained  consciousness  at 
times,  but  was  delirious,  and  kept  crying  out  for  her 
mother  and  Pierre  to  save  her  from  some  horror  that 
frightened  her.  The  nuns  had  made  enquiries  about  her 
through  civilians  in  Lille.  Some  of  them  had  heard  of 
the  girl  under  her  stage  name — "Marthe  de  Mericourt." 
She  had  sung  in  the  cabarets  before  the  war.  After  the 
German  occupation  she  had  disappeared  for  a  time. 
Somebody  said  she  had  been  half-starved  and  was  in  a 
desperate  state.  What  could  a  singing-girl  do  in  an  "oc- 
cupied" town?  She  reappeared  in  a  restaurant  fre- 
quented by  German  officers  and  kept  up  by  a  woman  of 
bad  character.  She  sang  and  danced  there  for  a  miser- 
able wage,  and  part  of  her  duty  was  to  induce  German 
officers  to  drink  champagne — the  worst  brand  for  the 
highest  price.  A  horrible  degradation  for  a  decent  girl ! 
But  starvation,  so  Eileen  said,  has  fierce  claws.  Imagine 
what  agony,  what  terror,  what  despair  must  have  gone 
before  that  surrender!  To  sing  and  dance  before  the 
enemies  of  your  country  I 

"Frightful!"  said  Brand.  "A  girl  should  prefer 
death." 

Eileen  O'Connor  was  twisting  the  coloured  beads  be- 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         127 

tween  her  fingers.  She  looked  up  at  Wickham  Brand 
with  a  deep  thought  fulness  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"Most  men  would  say  that.  And  all  women  beyond 
the  war-zone,  safe,  and  shielded.  But  death  does  not 
come  quickly  from  half -starvation,  in  a  garret  without 
fire,  in  clothes  that  are  worn  threadbare.  It  is  not  the 
quick  death,  of  the  battlefield.  It  is  just  a  long-drawn 
misery.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  loneliness.  The  loneliness  of 
a  woman's  soul.  Do  you  understand  that?" 

Brand  nodded  gravely. 

"I  understand  the  loneliness  of  a  man's  soul.  I've 
lived  with  it." 

"Worse  for  a  woman,"  said  Eileen.  "That  singing- 
girl  was  lonely  in  Lille.  Her  family — with  that  boy 
Pierre — were  on  the  other  side  of  the  lines.  She  had  no 
friends  here,  before  the  Germans  came." 

"You  mean  that  afterwards " 

Brand  checked  the  end  of  his  sentence,  and  the  line  of 
his  mouth  hardened. 

"Some  of  the  Germans  were  kind,"  said  Eileen.  "Oh, 
let  us  tell  the  truth  about  that!  They  were  not  all 
devils." 

"They  were  our  enemies,"  said  Brand. 

Eileen  was  silent  for  another  moment,  staring  down  at 
those  queer  beads  of  hers  in  her  lap,  and  before  she  spoke 
again  I  think  her  mind  was  going  back  over  many  epi- 
sodes«and  scenes  during  the  German  occupation  of  Lille. 

"It  was  a  long  time — four  years.  A  tremendous  time 
for  hatred  to  hold  out  against  civility,  kindness,  and — 
human  nature.  .  .  .  Human  nature  is  strong;  stronger 
than  frontiers,  nations,  even  patriotism." 

Eileen  O'Connor  flung  her  beads  back,  rose  from  the 
low  chair  and  turned  back  her  hair  with  both  hands, 
with  a  kind  of  impatience. 


128  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"I've  seen  the  truth  of  things,  pretty  close — almost  as 
dose  as  death." 

"Yes,"  said  Brand  in  a  low  voice.  "You  were  pretty 
close  to  all  that." 

The  girl  seemed  to  be  anxious  to  plunge  deep  into 
the  truth  of  the  things  she  had  seen. 

"The  Germans — here  in  Lille — were  of  all  kinds. 
Everything  there  was  in  the  war,  for  them,  their  emotion, 
their  pride  in  the  first  victories,  their  doubts,  fears,  bore- 
dom, anguish,  brutality,  sentiment,  found  a  dwelling- 
place  in  this  city  behind  the  battlefront.  Some  of  them 
— in  the  administration — stayed  here  all  the  time,  billeted 
in  French  families.  Others  came  back  from  the  battle- 
fields, horror-stricken,  trying  to  get  a  little  brief  happi- 
ness— forget  fulness.  There  were  lots  of  them  who 
pitied  the  French  people,  and  had  an  immense  sympathy 
with  them.  They  tried  to  be  friends.  Tried  hard,  by 
every  sort  of  small  kindness  in  their  billets." 

"Like  Schwarz  in  Madame  Cheri's  house,"  said  Brand 
bitterly.  It  seemed  to  me  curious  that  he  was  adopting 
a  mental  attitude  of  unrelenting  hatred  to  the  Germans, 
when,  as  I  knew,  and  as  I  have  told,  he  had  been  of  late 
on  the  side  of  toleration.  That  was  how  his  moods 
swung,  when  as  yet  he  had  no  fixed  point  of  view. 

"Oh,  yes,  there  were  many  beasts,"  said  Eileen  quickly. 
"But  others  were  different.  Beasts  or  not,  they  were 
human.  They  had  eyes  to  see  and  to  smile,  lips  to  talk 
and  tempt.  It  was  their  human  nature  which  broke  some 
of  our  hatred.  There  were  young  men  among  them,  and 
in  Lille  girls  who  could  be  angry  for  a  time,  disdainful 
longer,  and  then  friendly.  I  mean  lonely,  half -starved 
girls,  weak,  miserable  girls, — and  others  not  starved 
enough  to  lose  their  passion  and  need  of  love.  German 

boys  and  French  girls — entangled  in  the  net  of  fate 

God  pity  them !" 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         129 

Brand  said,  "I  pity  them,  too." 

He  walked  over  to  the  piano  and  made  an  abrupt  re- 
quest, as  though  to  change  the  subject  of  conversation.  , 

"Sing  something.  .  .  .  Something  English!" 

Eileen  O'Connor  sang  something  Irish  first,  and  I  liked 
her  deep  voice,  so  low  and  sweet. 

"There's  one  that  is  pure  as  an  angel 

And  fair  as  the  flowers  of  May, 
They  call  her  the  gentle  maiden 

Wherever  she  takes  her  way. 
Her  eyes  have  the  glance  of  sunlight 

As  it  brightens  the  blue  sea-wave, 
And  more  than  the  deep-sea  treasure 

The  love  of  her  heart  I  crave. 

Though  parted  afar  from  my  darling, 

I  dream  of  her  everywhere. 
The  sound  of  her  voice  is  about  me, 

The  spell  of  her  presence  there. 
And  whether  my  prayer  be  granted, 

Or  whether  she  pass  me  by, 
The  face  of  that  gentle  maiden 

Will  follow  me  till  I  die." 

Brand  was  standing  by  the  piano,  with  the  light  of  the 
tall  lamp  on  his  face,  and  I  saw  that  there  was  a  wetness 
in  his  eyes  before  the  song  was  ended. 

"It  is  queer  to  hear  that  in  Lille,"  he  said.  "It's  so 
long  since  I  heard  a  woman  sing,  and  it's  like  water  ta 
a  parched  soul." 

Eileen  O'Connor  played  the  last  bars  again  and,  as 
she  played,  talked  softly. 

"To  me,  the  face  of  that  gentle  maiden  is  a  friend's 
.face.  Alice  de  Villers-Auxicourt,  who  died  in  prison.  ' 

'And  whether  my  prayer  be  granted, 

Or  whether  she  pass  me  by, 
The  face  of  that  gentle  maiden 

Will  follow  me  till  I  die.'" 


130  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Brand  turned  over  the  songs,  and  suddenly  I  saw  his 
face  flush,  and  I  knew  the  reason.  He  had  come  to  the 
German  songs  on  which  was  written  the  name  of  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach. 

He  turned  them  over  quickly,  but  Eileen  pulled  one 
out — it  was  a  Schubert  song — and  opened  its  leaves. 

"That  was  the  man  who  saved  my  life." 

She  spoke  without  embarrassment,  simply. 

"Yes,"  said  Brand.     "He  suppressed  the  evidence." 

"Oh,  you  know?" 

I  told  her  that  we  had  heard  part  of  the  tale  from  the 
Reverend  Mother,  but  not  all  of  it.  Not  the  motive,  nor 
what  had  really  happened. 

"But  you  guessed?" 
-    "No,"  I  answered,  sturdily. 

She  laughed,  but  in  a  serious  way. 

j  "It  is  not  a  hard  guess,  unless  I  am  older  than  I  feel, 
and  uglier  than  the  mirror  tells  me.  He  was  in  love 
with  me." 

Brand  and  I  looked  absurdly  embarrassed.  Of  course 
we  had  guessed,  but  this  open  confession  was  startling, 
and  there  was  something  repulsive  in  the  idea  to  both 
of  us  who  had  come  through  the  war-zone  into  Lille,  and 
had  seen  the  hatred  of  the  people  for  the  German  race, 
and  the  fate  of  Pierre  Nesle's  sister. 

Eileen  O'Connor  told  us  that  part  of  her  story  which 
the  Reverend  Mother  had  left  out.  It  explained  the 
"miracle"  that  had  saved  this  girl's  life,  though,  as  the 
Reverend  Mother  said,  perhaps  the  grace  of  God  was  in 
it  as  well.  Who  knows  ? 

t  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  was  one  of  the  Intelligence  offi- 
cers whose  headquarters  were  in  that  courtyard.  After 
service  in  the  trenches  with  an  infantry  battalion  he  had 
been  stationed  since  1915  at  Lille  until  almost  the  end 
jHe  had  a  lieutenant's  rank,  but  was  Baron  in  private  life, 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         131 

belonging  to  an  old  family  in  Bonn.  Not  a  Prussian, 
therefore,  but  a  Rhinelander,  and  without  the  Prussian 
arrogance  of  manner.  Just  before  the  war  he  had  been 
at  Oxford — Brasenose  College — and  spoke  English  per- 
fectly, and  loved  England  with  a  strange,  deep,  uncon- 
cealed sentiment.  . 

"Loved  England?"  exclaimed  Brand  at  this  part  of 
Eileen's  tale. 

"Why  not  ?"  asked  Eileen.  "I'm  Irish,  but  I  love  Eng- 
land, in  spite  of  all  her  faults,  and  all  my  grievances! 
Who  can  help  loving  England  that  has  lived  with  her 
people?" 

This  Lieutenant  von  Kreuzenach  was  two  months  in 
Lille  before  he  spoke  a  word  with  Eileen.  She  passed 
him  often  in  the  courtyard  and  always  he  saluted  her 
with  great  deference.  She  fancied  she  noticed  a  kind 
of  wistfulness  in  his  eyes,  as  though  he  would  have  liked 
to  talk  to  her.  He  had  blue  eyes,  sad  sometimes,  she  no- 
ticed, and  a  clean-cut  face,  rather  delicate  and  pale. 

One  day  she  dropped  a  pile  of  books  in  the  yard  all 
of  a  heap,  as  he  was  passing,  and  he  said,  "Allow  me," 
and  helped  to  pick  them  up.  One  of  the  books  was 
"Puck  of  Pook's  Hill,"  by  Kipling,  and  he  smiled  as 
he  turned  over  a  page  or  two. 

"I  love  that  book,"  he  said,  in  perfect  English. 
"There's  so  much  of  the  spirit  of  old  England  in  it. 
History,  too.  That's  fine  about  the  Roman  wall,  where 
the  officers  go  pig-sticking." 

Eileen  O'Connor  asked  him  if  he  were  half  English — 
perhaps  he  had  an  English  mother? — but  he  shook  his 
head  and  said  he  was  wholly  German — echt  Deutsch. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  as  though  he  wanted  to 
continue  the  conversation,  but  then  saluted  and  passed  on. 

It  was  a  week  or  so  later  when  they  met  again,  and  it 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

was  Eileen  O'Connor  who  said  "Good  morning"  and 
made  a  remark  about  the  weather. 

He  stopped,  and  answered  with  a  look  of  pleasure  and 
boyish  surprise. 

"It's  jolly  to  hear  you  say  'Good  morning'  in  English. 
Takes  me  straight  back  to  Oxford  before  this  atrocious 
war.  Besides " 

Here  he  stopped  and  blushed. 

"Besides  what?"  asked  Eileen. 

"Besides,  it's  a  long  time  since  I  talked  to  a  lady. 
Among  officers  one  hears  nothing  but  war-talk — the  last 
battle,  the  next  battle,  technical  jargon,  'shop/  as  the 
English  say.  It  would  be  nice  to  talk  about  something 
else — art,  music,  poetry,  ideas." 

She  chaffed  him  a  little,  irresistibly. 

"Oh,  but  you  Germans  have  the  monopoly  of  all  that! 
Art,  music,  poetry,  they  are  all  absorbed  into  your  Kul- 
tur — properly  Germanised.  As  for  ideas — what  is  not 
in  German  philosophy  is  not  an  idea." 

He  looked  profoundly  hurt,  said  Eileen. 

"Some  Germans  are  very  narrow,  very  stupid,  like 
some  English,  perhaps.  Not  all  of  us  believe  that  Ger- 
man Kultur  is  the  only  knowledge  in  the  world." 

"Anyhow,"  said  Eileen  O'Connor,  "I'm  Irish,  so  we 
needn't  argue  about  the  difference  between  German  and 
English  philosophy." 

He  spoke  as  if  quoting  from  a  text-book. 

"The  Irish  are  a  very  romantic  race." 

That,  of  course,  had  to  be  denied  by  Eileen,  who  knew 
her  Bernard  Shaw. 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  she  said.  "We're  a  hard,  log- 
ical, relentless  people,  like  all  peasant  folk  of  Celtic  stock. 
It's  the  English  who  are  romantic  and  sentimental,  like 
the  Germans." 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         133 

He  was  amazed  at  those  words  (so  Eileen  told  us)  and 
then  laughed  heartily  in  his  very  boyish  way. 

"You  are  pleased  to  make  fun  of  me.  You  are  pulling 
my  leg,  as  we  said  at  Oxford." 

So  they  took  to  talking  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  court- 
yard when  they  met,  and  Eileen  noticed  that  they  met 
more  often  than  before.  She  suspected  him  of  arrang- 
ing that,  and  it  amused  her.  By  that  time  she  had  a 
staunch  friend  in  the  old  Kommandant  who  believed  her 
to  be  an  enemy  of  England  and  an  Irish  patriot.  She 
was  already  playing  the  dangerous  game  under  his  very 
nose,  or  at  least  within  fifty  yards  of  the  blotting-pad 
over  which  his  nose  used  to  be  for  many  hours  of  the  day 
in  his  office.  It  was  utterly  necessary  to  keep  him  free 
from  any  suspicion.  His  confidence  was  her  greatest 
safeguard.  It  was  therefore  unwise  to  refuse  him  (an 
honest,  stupid  old  gentleman)  when  he  asked  whether, 
now  and  again,  he  might  bring  one  of  his  officers  and 
enjoy  an  hour's  music  in  her  rooms  after  dinner.  He 
had  heard  her  singing,  and  it  had  gone  straight  to  his 
heart.  There  was  one  of  his  officers,  Lieutenant  Baron 
Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  who  had  a  charming  voice.  They 
might  have  a  little  musical  recreation  which  would  be 
most  pleasant  and  refreshing. 

"Bring  your  Baron,"  said  Eileen.  "I  shall  not  scan- 
dalise my  neighbours  when  the  courtyard  is  closed." 

Her  girl-friends  were  scandalised  when  they  heard  of 
these  musical  evenings — two  or  three  times  a  month — 
until  she  convinced  them  that  it  was  a  service  to  France, 
and  a  life  insurance  for  herself  and  them.  There  were 
times  when  she  had  scruples.  She  was  tricking  both 
those  men  who  sat  in  her  room  for  an  hour  or  two  now 
and  then,  so  polite,  so  stiffly  courteous,  so  moved  with 
sentiment  when  she  sang  old  Irish  songs  and  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach  sang  his  German  songs.  She  was  a  spy,  in 


tt34  WOUNDED  SOULS 

plain  and  terrible  language,  and  they  were  utterly  duped. 
On  more  than  one  night  while  they  were  there  an  escaped 
prisoner  was  in  the  cellar  below,  with  a  German  uniform, 
and  cypher  message,  and  all  directions  for  escape  across 
the  lines.  Though  they  seldom  talked  about  the  war,  yet 
now  and  again  by  casual  remarks  they  revealed  the  in- 
tentions of  the  German  army  and  its  moral,  or  lack  of 
moral.  With  the  old  Kommandant  she  did  not  feel  so 
conscience-stricken.  To  her  he  was  gentle  and  charming, 
but  to  others  a  bully,  and  there  was  in  his  character  the 
ruthlessness  of  the  Prussian  officer  on  all  matters  of 
"duty,"  and  he  hated  England  ferociously. 

With  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  it  was  different.  He  was 
a  humanitarian,  and  sensitive  to  all  cruelty  in  life.  He 
hated  not  the  English  but  the  war  with  real  anguish,  as 
she  could  see  by  many  words  he  let  fall  from  time  to 
time.  He  was,  she  said,  a  poet,  and  could  see  across* 
the  frontiers  of  hatred  to  all  suffering  humanity,  and  so 
revolted  against  the  endless,  futile  massacre  and  the 
spiritual  degradation  of  civilised  peoples.  It  was  only  in 
a  veiled  way  he  could  say  these  things,  in  the  presence  of 
his  superior  officer,  but  she  understood.  She  understood 
another  thing  as  time  went  on — nearly  eighteen  months 
all  told.  She  saw,  quite  clearly,  as  all  women  must  see 
in  such  a  case  that  this  young  German  was  in  love  wit^ 
her. 

"He  did  not  speak  any  word  in  that  way,"  said  Eileen 
when  she  told  us  this,  frankly,  in  her  straight  manner  of 
speech,  "but  in  his  eyes,  in  the  touch  of  his  hand,  in  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  I  knew  that  he  loved  me,  and  I  was 
very  sorry." 

"It  was  a  bit  awkward,"  said  Brand,  speaking  with  a 
strained  attempt  at  being  casual.  I  could  see  that  he  was 
very  much  moved  by  that  part  of  the  story,  and  that 
there  was  a  conflict  in  his  mind. 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         135 

"It  made  me  uneasy  and  embarrassed,"  said  Eileen. 
"I  don't  like  to  be  the  cause  of  any  man's  suffering,  and 
he  was  certainly  suffering  because  of  me.  It  was  a  tragic 
thing  for  both  of  us  when  I  was  found  out  at  last." 

"\Yhat  happened  ?"  asked  Brand. 

The  thing  that  happened  was  simple — and  horrible. 
When  Eileen  and  her  companions  were  denounced  by  the 
sentry  at  the  Citadel  the  case  was  reported  to  the  Kom~ 
mandant  of  the  Intelligence  office,  who  was  in  charge 
of  all  anti-espionage  business  in  Lille.  He  was  enor- 
mously disturbed  by  the  suspicion  directed  against  Eileen. 
It  seemed  to  him  incredible,  at  first,  that  he  could  have 
been  duped  by  her.  After  that,  his  anger  was  so  violent 
that  he  became  incapable  of  any  personal  action.  He 
ordered  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  to  arrest  Eileen  and 
search  her  rooms.  "If  she  resist,  shoot  her  at  once," 
he  thundered  out. 

It  was  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  Baron 
Franz  von  Kreuzenach  appeared  at  Eileen's  door  with 
two  soldiers.  He  was  extremely  pale  and  agitated. 

Eileen  rose  from  her  little  table,  where  she  was  having 
an  evening  meal  of  soup  and  bread.  She  knew  the  mo- 
ment had  come  which  in  imagination  she  had  seen  a 
thousand  times. 

"Come  in,  Baron!" 

She  spoke  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  but  had 
to  hold  to  the  back  of  her  chair  to  save  herself  from 
falling,  and  she  felt  her  face  become  white. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  room,  silently,  with 
the  two  soldiers  behind  him,  and  when  he  spoke  it  was 
in  a  low  voice,  in  English. 

"It  is  my  painful  duty  to  arrest  you,  Miss  O'Connor." 

She  pretended  to  be  amazed,  incredulous,  but  it  was, 
as  she  knew,  a  feeble  mimicry. 


"Arrest  me?  Why,  that  is — ridiculous!  On  what 
charge  ?" 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  looked  at  her  in  a  pitiful  way. 

"A  terrible  charge.  Espionage  and  conspiracy  against 
German  martial  law.  ...  I  would  rather  have  died  than 
do  this — duty." 

Eileen  told  us  that  he  spoke  that  word  "duty"  as  only, 
a  German  could — as  that  law  which  for  a  German  officer 
is  above  all  human  things,  all  kindly  relationships,  all 
escape.  She  pitied  him  then,  more,  she  said,  than  she 
was  afraid  for  herself,  and  told  him  that  she  was  sorry 
the  duty  had  fallen  to  him.  He  made  only  one  other 
remark  before  he  took  her  away  from  her  rooms. 

"I  pray  God  the  evidence  will  be  insufficient." 

There  was  a  military  car  waiting  outside  the  court- 
yard, and  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to  get  in,  and  sat 
opposite  to  her.  The  two  soldiers  sat  together  next  to  the 
driver,  squeezed  close — they  were  both  stout  men — with 
their  rifles  between  their  knees.  It  was  dark  in  the  streets 
of  Lille,  and  in  the  car.  Eileen  could  only  see  the  officer's 
face  vaguely,  and  white.  He  spoke  again  as  they  were 
driven  quickly. 

"I  have  to  search  your  rooms  to-night.  Have  you 
destroyed  your  papers?" 

He  seemed  to  have  no  doubt  about  her  guilt,  but  she 
would  not  admit  it. 

"I  have  no  papers  of  which  I  am  afraid." 

"That  is  well,"  said  Franz  von  Kreuzenach. 

He  told  her  that  the  Baronne  de  Villers-Auxicourt  and 
Marcelle  Barbier  had  been  arrested  also,  and  that  news 
was  like  a  death-blow  to  the  girl.  It  showed  that  their 
conspiracy  had  been  revealed,  and  she  was  stricken  at  the 
thought  of  the  fate  awaiting  her  friends,  those  young, 
delicate  girls  who  had  been  so  brave  in  taking  risks. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  journey,  which  was  not  far, 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE         137 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  began  speaking  in  a  low,  emo- 
tional voice. 

Whatever  happened,  he  said,  he  prayed  that  she  might 
think  of  him  with  friendship,  not  blaming  him  for  that 
arrest,  which  was  in  obedience  to  orders.  He  would  ever 
be  grateful  to  her  for  her  kindness,  and  the  songs  she 
had  sung.  They  had  been  happy  evenings  to  him  when 
he  could  see  her,  and  listen  to  her  voice.  He  looked  for- 
ward to  them  in  a  hungry  way,  because  of  his  loneliness. 

"He  said — other  things,"  added  Eileen,  and  she  did  not 
tell  us,  though  dimly  we  guessed  at  the  words  of  that 
German  officer  who  loved  her.  At  the  gate  of  the  prison 
he  delivered  her  to  a  group  of  military  police,  and  then 
saluted  as  he  swung  round  on  his  heel. 

The  next  time  she  saw  him  was  at  her  trial.  Once  only 
their  eyes  met,  and  he  became  deadly  pale  and  bent  his 
head.  During  her  cross-examination  of  him  he  did  not 
look  at  her,  and  his  embarrassment,  his  agony — she  could 
see  that  he  was  suffering — made  an  unfavourable  impres- 
sion on  the  Court,  who  thought  he  was  not  sure  of  his 
evidence,  and  was  making  blundering  answers  when  she 
challenged  him.  She  held  him  up  to  ridicule,  but  all  the 
time  was  sorry  for  him,  and  grateful  to  him,  because  she 
knew  how  much  evidence  against  her  he  had  concealed. 

"He  behaved  strangely  about  that  evidence,"  said 
Eileen.  "What  puzzles  me  still  is  why  he  produced  so 
much  and  yet  kept  back  the  rest.  You  see,  he  put  in 
the  papers  he  had  found  in  the  secret  passage,  and  they 
were  enough  to  have  me  shot,  yet  he  hushed  up  the  fact 
about  the  passage,  which,  of  course,  was  utterly  damning. 
It  looked  as  though  he  wanted  to  give  me  a  sporting 
chance.  But  that  was  not  his  character,  because  he  was 
a  simple  young  man.  He  could  have  destroyed  the  papers 
as  easily  as  he  kept  back  the  fact  about  the  underground 
passage,  but  he  produced  them,  and  I  escaped  only  by 


138  WOUNDED  SOULS 

the  skin  of  my  teeth.  Read  me  that  riddle,  Wickham 
Brand!" 

"It's  easy,"  said  Brand.  "The  fellow  was  pulled  two 
ways.  By  duty  and — sentiment." 

"Love,"  said  Eileen  in  her  candid  way. 

"Love,  if  you  like.  ...  It  was  a  conflict.  Probably 
his  sense  of  duty  (I  know  these  German  officers!)  was 
strong  enough  to  make  him  hand  up  the  papers  to  his 
superior  officers.  He  couldn't  bring  himself  to  burn 
them — the  fool !  Then  the  other  emotion  in  him " 

"Give  it  a  name,"  said  Eileen,  smiling  in  her  whim- 
sical way. 

"That  damned  love  of  his,"  said  Brand,  "tugged  at  him 
intolerably,  and  jabbed  at  his  conscience.  So  he  hid  the 
news  about  the  passage,  and  thought  what  a  fine  fellow  he 
was.  Mr.  Facing-Both-Ways.  Duty  and  love,  both 
sacrificed!  .  .  .  He'd  have  looked  pretty  sick  if  you'd 
been  shot,  and  it  wasn't  to  his  credit  that  you  weren't." 

Eileen  O'Connor  was  amused  with  Brand's  refusal  to 
credit  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  with  any  kindness. 

"Admit,"  she  said,  "that  his  suppression  of  evidence 
gave  me  my  chance.  If  all  were  told,  I  was  lost." 

Brand  admitted  that. 

"Admit  also,"  said  Eileen,  "that  he  behaved  like  a 
gentleman." 

Brand  admitted  it  grudgingly. 

"A  German  gentleman." 

Then  he  realised  his  meanness,  and  made  amends. 

"That's  unfair !  He  behaved  like  a  good  fellow.  Prob- 
ably took  big  risks.  Everyone  who  knows  what  hap- 
pened must  be  grateful  to  him.  If  I  meet  him  I'll  thank 
him." 

Eileen  O'Connor  held  Brand  to  that  promise,  and  asked 
him  for  a  favour  which  made  him  hesitate. 


THE  END  OF  THE  ADVENTURE          139 

"When  you  go  on  to  the  Rhine,  will  you  take  him  a 
letter  from  me?" 

"It's  against  the  rules,"  said  Brand,  rather  stiffly. 
Eileen   pooh-poohed    these   rules,    and   said   Franz   von 
Kreuzenach  had  broken  his,  for  her  sake. 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  Brand. 

That  night  when  we  left  Eileen  O'Connor's  rooms  the 
Armistice  was  still  being  celebrated  by  British  soldiers. 
Verey  lights  were  rising  above  the  houses,  fired  off  by 
young  officers  as  symbols  of  their  own  soaring  spirits. 
Shadows  lurched  against  us  in  the  dark  streets  as  officers 
and  men  went  singing  to  their  billets.  Some  girls  of 
Lille  had  linked  arms  with  British  Tommies  and  were 
dancing  in  the  darkness,  with  screams  of  mirth.  In  one 
of  the  doorways  a  soldier  with  his  steel  hat  at  the  back 
of  his  head  and  his  rifle  lying  at  his  feet,  kept  shouting 
one  word  in  a  drunken  way : 

"Peace!  .  .  .  Peace!" 

Brand  had  his  arm  through  mine,  and  when  we  came 
to  his  headquarters  he  would  not  let  me  go. 

"Armistice  night!"  he  said.  "Don't  let's  sleep  just 
yet.  Let's  hug  the  thought,  over  a  glass  of  whiskey.  The 
war  is  over !  .  .  .  No  more  blood !  .  .  .  No  more  of  its 
tragedy !" 

Yet  we  had  got  no  farther  than  the  hall  before  we 
knew  that  tragedy  had  not  ended  with  the  Armistice. 

Colonel  Lavington  met  us  and  spoke  to  Brand. 

"A  bad  thing  has  happened.  Young  Clatworthy  has 
shot  himself  .  .  .  upstairs  in  his  room." 

"No!" 

Brand  started  back  as  if  he  had  been  hit.  He  had 
been  fond  of  Clatworthy,  as  he  was  of  all  boys,  and 
they  had  been  together  for  many  months.  It  was  to  Brand 
that  Clatworthy  wrote  his  last  strange  note,  and  the 
Colonel  gave  it  to  him  then,  in  the  hall 


i!40  WOUNDED  SOULS 

I  saw  it  afterwards,  written  in  a  big  scrawl — a  few 
lines  which  now  I  copy  out: 

"Dear  old  Brandj 

It's  the  end  of  the  adventure.  Somehow  I  funk  Peace.  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  go  back  to  Wimbledon  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  to  me.  None  of  us  are  the  same  as  when  we  left,  and 
I'm  quite  different.  I'm  going  over  to  the  pals  on  the  other 
side.  They  will  understand.  Cheerio! 

"CYRIL  CLATWOETHY." 

"I  was  playing  my  flute  when  I  heard  the  shot,"  said 
the  Colonel. 

Brand  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  made  only  one 
comment. 

"Another  victim  of  the  war-devil.  .  .  .  Poor  kid!" 

Presently  he  went  up  to  young  Clatworthy's  room,  and 
stayed  there  a  long  time. 

A  few  days  later  we  began  to  move  on  towards  the 
Rhine,  by  slow  stages,  giving  the  German  army  time  to 
get  back.  In  Brand's  pocket-book  was  the  letter  to  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach,  from  Eileen  O'Connor. 


BOOK  TWO:  THROUGH  HOSTILE 
GATES 


BOOK  TWO:  THROUGH  HOSTILE 
GATES 


THE  advance  of  the  Allied  Armies  towards  the  Rhine 
was  by  definite,  slow  stages,  enabling  the  German 
Army  to  withdraw  in  advance  of  us  with  as  much  ma- 
terial of  war  as  was  left  to  them  by  the  conditions  of  the 
Armistice.  On  that  retreat  of  theirs  they  abandoned  so 
much  that  it  was  clearly  impossible  for  them  to  resist  our 
demands  by  fighting  again,  however  hard  might  be  the 
Peace  Terms.  Their  acceptance  of  the  Armistice  drawn 
up  by  Marshal  Foch  with  a  relentless  severity  in  every 
clause,  so  that  the  whole  document  was  a  sentence  of 
death  to  the  German  military  system,  proved  that  they 
had  no  more  "fight"  in  them.  It  was  the  most  abject 
and  humiliating  surrender  ever  made  by  a  great  nation 
in  the  hour  of  defeat,  and  an  acknowledgment  before  the 
whole  world  that  their  armies  had  broken  to  bits,  in 
organisation  and  in  spirit. 

On  the  roads  for  hundreds  of  kilometres  out  from 
Mons  and  Le  Cateau,  past  Brussels  and  Liege  and  Na- 
mur,  was  the  visible  proof  of  the  disintegration  and 
downfall  of  what  had  been  the  greatest  military  machine 
in  the  world.  Mile  after  mile  and  score  after  score  of 
miles,  on  each  side  of  the  long  straight  roads,  down 
which,  four  years  before,  the  first  German  Armies  had 
marched  in  endless  columns  after  the  first  brief  check  at 

143 


144  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Liege,  with  absolute  faith  in  victory,  there  lay  now 
abandoned  guns,  trench  mortars,  aeroplanes,  motor- 
lorries,  motor-cars  and  transport-wagons.  Those  mon- 
strous guns  which  had  pounded  so  much  of  our  young 
flesh  to  pulp,  year  after  year,  were  now  tossed  into  the 
ditches,  or  upturned  in  the  wayside  fields,  with  broken 
breach-blocks  or  without  their  sights.  It  was  good  to 
see  them  there.  Field-guns  captured  thrust  their  muzzles 
into  the  mud,  and  Belgian  peasant-boys  made  cock-shies 
of  them.  I  liked  to  see  them  at  that  game.  Here  also 
was  the  spectacle  of  a  war  machine  which  had  worn  out' 
until,  like  the  "One  Hoss  Shay,"  it  had  fallen  to  pieces. 
Those  motor-lorries,  motor-cars,  and  transport-wagons 
were  in  the  last  stage  of  decrepitude,  their  axles  and 
spokes  all  rusty,  their  woodwork  cracked,  their  wheels 
tied  round  with  bits  of  iron  in  the  place  of  tyres.  Every- 
where were  dead  horses  worn  to  skin  and  bones  before 
they  had  fallen.  For  lack  of  food  and  fats  and  rubber 
and  labour  the  German  material  of  war  was  in  a  sorry 
state  before  the  failure  of  their  man-power  in  the  fight- 
ing fields  after  those  years  of  massacre  brought  home  to 
them  the  awful  fact  that  they  had  no  more  strength  to 
resist  our  onslaughts. 

One  of  those  who  pointed  the  moral  of  all  this  was 
the  little  American  doctor,  Edward  Small,  and  he  found 
an  immense  satisfaction  in  the  sight  of  those  derelict 
wrecks  of  the  German  war-devils.  He  and  I  travelled 
together  for  some  time,  meeting  Brand,  Harding,  and 
other  friends,  in  towns  like  Liege  and  Namur.  I  remem- 
ber him  now,  standing  by  a  German  howitzer — a  colossus 
— sprawling  out  of  a  ditch.  He  chuckled  in  a  goblin  way, 
with  his  little  grey  beard  thrust  up  by  a  muffler  which 
he  had  tied  over  his  field-cap  and  under  his  chin.  (It 
was  cold,  with  a  white  mist  which  clung  damply  to  our 
faces.)  He  went  so  far  in  his  pleasure  as  to  pick  up  a 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  145 

big  stone  (like  those  Belgian  boys)  and  heave  it  at  the 
monster. 

"Fine!"  he  said.  "That  devil  will  never  again  vomit 
out  death  upon  men  crouching  low  in  ditches — fifteen 
miles  away.  Never  again  will  it  smash  through  the  roofs 
of  farmhouses  where  people  desired  to  live  in  peace,  or 
bash  big  holes  in  little  old  churches  where  folk  wor- 
shipped through  the  centuries — a  loving  God!  .  .  . 
Sonny,  this  damned  thing  is  symbolical.  Its  overthrow 
means  the  downfall  of  all  the  machinery  of  slaughter 
which  has  been  accumulated  by  civilised  peoples  afraid 
of  each  other.  In  a  little  while,  if  there's  any  sense  in 
humanity  after  this  fearful  lesson,  we  shall  put  all  our 
guns  on  to  the  scrap-heap,  and  start  a  new  era  of  reason- 
able intercourse  between  the  peoples  of  the  world." 

"Doctor,"  I  answered,  "there's  a  mighty  big  If  in  that 
long  sentence  of  yours." 

He  blinked  at  me  with  beads  of  mist  on  his  lashes. 

"Don't  you  go  wet-blanketing  my  faith  in  a  step-up 
for  the  human  race !  During  the  next  few  months  we're 
going  to  rearrange  life.  We  are  going  to  give  Fear  the 
knock-out  blow.  ...  It  was  Fear  that  was  the  cause 
of  all  this  horrible  insanity  and  all  this  need  of  sacrifice. 
Germany  was  afraid  of  being  'hemmed  in'  by  England, 
France  and  Russia.  Fear,  more  than  the  lust  of  power, 
was  at  the  back  of  her  big  armies.  France  was  afraid 
of  Germany  trampling  over  her  frontiers  again.  Rus- 
sian Czardom  was  afraid  of  Revolution  within  her  own 
borders  and  looked  to  war  as  a  safety-valve.  England 
was  afraid  of  the  German  Navy,  and  afraid  of  Germans 
at  Calais  and  Dunkirk.  All  the  little  Powers  were  afraid 
of  the  Big  Powers,  and  made  their  beastly  little  alliances 
as  a  life  insurance  against  the  time  when  they  would  be 
dragged  into  the  dog-fight.  Now,  with  the  German  bogey 
killed — the  most  formidable  and  frightful  bogey — Aus- 


146  WOUNDED  SOULS 

tria  disintegrated,  Russia  groping  her  way  with  blood- 
shot eyes  to  a  new  democracy,  a  complete  set  of  Fears 
has  been  removed.  The  spirits  of  the  peoples  will  be 
uplifted,  the  darkness  of  fear  having  passed  from  them. 
We  are  coming  out  into  the  broad  sunlight  of  sanity,  and 
mankind  will  march  to  better  conquests  than  those  of 
conscript  armies.  Thank  God,  the  United  States  of 
America  (and  don't  you  forget  it!)  will  play  a  part  in 
this  advance  to  another  New  World." 

It  was  absurd  to  argue  with  the  little  man  in  a  sodden 
field  on  the  road  to  Liege.  Besides,  though  I  saw  weak 
links  in  his  chain  of  reasoning,  I  did  not  want  to  argue. 
I  wanted  to  believe  also  that  our  victory  would  not  be  a 
mere  vulgar  triumph  of  the  old  kind,  one  military  power 
rising  upon  the  ruins  of  its  rival,  one  great  yell  (or 
many)  of  "Yah! — we  told  you  so!"  but  that  it  would  be 
a  victory  for  all  humanity,  shamed  by  the  degradation  of 
its  orgy  of  blood,,  in  spite  of  all  pride  in  long-enduring 
manhood,  and  that  the  peoples  of  the  world,  with  one 
common,  enormous,  generous  instinct,  would  cry  out, 
"The  horror  has  passed!  Never  again  shall  it  come 
upon  us.  ...  Let  us  pay  back  to  the  dead  by  contriving 
a  better  way  of  life  for  them  who  follow!"  The  chance 
of  that  lay  with  living  youth,  if  they  would  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  betrayed  by  their  Old  Men.  That  also 
was  a  mighty  "If,"  but  I  clung  to  the  hope  with  as  pas- 
sionate a  faith  as  that  of  the  little  American  doctor.  .  .  . 

The  way  to  the  Rhine  lay  through  many  cities  liberated 
from  hostile  rule,  through  many  wonderful  scenes  in 
which  emotion  surged  like  a  white  flame  above  great 
crowds.  There  was  a  pageantry  of  life,  which  I  had 
never  before  seen  in  war  or  in  peace,  and  those  of  us 
who  went  that  way  became  dazed  by  the  endless  riot 
of  colour,  and  our  ears  were  tired  by  a  tumult  of  joyous 
sound  In  Brussels,  Bruges,  Ghent,  Liege,  Namur,  Ver- 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  147 

viers,  banners  waved  above  every  house.  Flags — flags — 
flags,  of  many  nations  and  designs,  decorated  the  house- 
fronts,  were  draped  on  the  balconies,  were  entwined  in 
the  windows,  came  like  flames  above  the  heads  of  march- 
ing crowds.  Everywhere  there  was  the  sound  of  singing 
by  multitudes,  and  through  those  weeks  one  song  was 
always  in  the  air,  triumphant,  exultant,  intoxicating, 
almost  maddening  in  its  effect  upon  crowds  and  in- 
dividuals— the  old  song  of  liberty  and  revolt :  "La  Mar- 
seillaise." With  it,  not  so  universal,  but  haunting  in  con- 
stant refrain  between  the  outbursts  of  that  other  tune, 
they  sang  "La  Brabanqonne"  of  Belgium,  and  quaint  old 
folk-songs  that  came  to  life  again  with  the  spirit  of  the 
people.  Bells  pealed  from  churches  in  which  the  Ger- 
mans had  left  them  by  special  favour.  The  belfry  of 
Bruges  had  not  lost  its  carillon.  In  Ghent  when  the  King 
of  the  Belgians  rode  in  along  flower-strewn  ways  under 
banners  that  made  one  great  canopy,  while  cheers  swept 
up  and  around  him,  to  his  grave,  tanned,  melancholy  face, 
unchanged  by  victory — so  I  had  seen  him  in  his  ruined 
towns  among  his  dead — I  heard  the  great  boom  of  the 
Cathedral  bell.  In  Brussels,  when  he  rode  in  later,  there 
were  many  bells  ringing  and  clashing,  and  wild  cheering 
which  to  me,  lying  in  an  upper  room,  after  a  smash  on 
the  Field  of  Waterloo,  seemed  uncanny  and  inhuman, 
like  the  murmur  of  innumerable  ghost-voices.  Into  these 
towns,  and  along  the  roads  through  Belgium  to  the 
Meuse,  bands  were  playing  and  soldiers  singing,  and  on 
each  man's  rifle  was  a  flag  or  a  flower.  In  every  city 
there  was  carnival.  It  was  the  carnival  of  human  joy 
after  long  fasting  from  the  pleasure  of  life.  Soldiers 
and  civilians,  men  and  women,  sang  together,  linked 
arms,  danced  together,  through  many  streets,  in  many 
towns.  In  the  darkness  of  those  nights  of  Armistice 
one  saw  the  eyes  of  people,  sparkling,  laughing,  burning; 


148  WOUNDED  SOULS 

the  eyes  of  girls  lit  tip  by  inner  fires,  eager,  roving,  allur- 
ing, untamed ;  and  the  eyes  of  soldiers  surprised,  amused, 
adventurous,  drunken,  ready  for  any  kind  of  fun;  and 
sometimes  in  those  crowds,  dead  eyes,  or  tortured  eyes, 
staring  inwards  and  not  outwards  because  of  some  re- 
membrance which  came  like  a  ghost  between  them  and 
carnival. 

In  Ghent  there  were  other  sounds  besides  music  and 
laughter,  and  illuminations  too  fierce  and  ruddy  in  their 
glow  to  give  me  pleasure.  At  night  I  heard  the  screams 
of  women.  I  had  no  need  to  ask  the  meaning  of  them. 
I  had  heard  such  screams  before,  when  Pierre  Nesle's 
sister  Marthe  was  in  the  hands  of  the  mob.  But  one 
man  told  me,  as  though  I  did  not  know. 

"They  are  cutting  off  some  ladies'  hair.  Six  of  them 
— the  hussies.  They  were  too  friendly  with  the  Ger- 
mans, you  understand?  Now  they  are  being  stripped, 
for  shame.  There  are  others,  monsieur.  Many,  many, 
if  one  only  knew.  Hark  at  their  howling!" 

He  laughed  heartily,  without  any  touch  of  pity.  I 
tried  to  push  my  way  nearer,  to  try  by  some  word  of 
protest  to  stop  that  merry  sport  with  hunted  women.  The 
crowds  were  too  dense,  the  women  too  far  away.  In 
any  case  no  word  of  mine  would  have  had  effect.  I  went 
into  a  restaurant  and  ordered  dinner,  though  not  hungry. 
•Brand  was  there,  sitting  alone  till  I  joined  him.  The 
place  was  filled  with  French  and  Belgian  officers,  and 
womenfolk.  The  swing-door  opened  and  another  woman 
came  in  and  sat  a  few  tables  away  from  ours.  She  was 
a  tall  girl,  rather  handsome,  and  better  dressed  than  the 
ordinary  bourgeoisie  of  Ghent.  At  least  so  it  seemed 
to  me  when  she  hung  up  some  heavy  furs  on  the  peg 
above  her  chair. 

A  waiter  advanced  towards  her,  and  then,  standing 
stock-still,  began  to  shout,  with  a  thrill  of  fury  in  his 


.  THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  149 

voice.  He  shouted  frightful  words  in  French  and  one 
sentence  which  I  remember  now. 

"A  week  ago  you  sat  there  with  a  German  officer!" 

The  Belgian  officers  were  listening,  gravely.  One  of 
them  half-rose  from  his  chair  with  a  flushed,  wolfish 
face.  I  was  staring  at  the  girl.  She  was  white  to  the 
lips  and  held  on  to  a  brass  rail  as  though  about  to  faint. 
Then,  controlling  herself,  instantly,  she  fumbled  at  the 
peg,  pulled  down  her  furs  and  fled  through  the  swing- 
door.  .  .  .  She  was  another  MaKthe. 

Somebody  laughed  in  the  restaurant,  but  only  one 
voice.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  conversa- 
tion was  resumed,  as  though  no  figure  of  tragedy  had. 
passed.  The  waiter  who  had  denounced  the  woman 
swept  some  crumbs  off  a  table  and  went  to  fetch  some 
soup. 

Brand  did  not  touch  his  food. 

"I  feel  sick,"  he  said. 

He  pushed  his  plate  away  and  paid  the  bill. 

"Let's  go." 

He  forgot  to  ask  whether  I  wanted  to  eat — he  was 
absent-minded  in  that  way — but  I  felt  like  him,  and 
avoiding  the  Grande  Place  we  walked  by  hazard  to  a 
part  of  the  city  where  some  fires  were  burning.  The  sky 
was  reddened  and  we  smelt  smoke,  and  presently  felt 
the  heat  of  flames. 

"What  new  devilry  ?"  asked  Brand.  "Can't  these  peo- 
ple enjoy  Peace?  Hasn't  there  been  enough  violence?"  / 

"Possibly  a  bonfire,"  I  said,  "symbolical  of  joy  and 
warmth  after  cold  years!" 

Coming  closer,  I  saw  that  Brand  was  right.  Black 
figures  like  dancing  devils  were  in  the  ruddy  glare  of  a 
savage  fire  up  a  side  street  of  Ghent.  In  other  streets 
were  other  fires.  Close  to  where  we  stood  was  an  old 
inn  called  the  Hotel  de  la  Demie-Lune — the  Hotel  of  the 


150  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Half-Moon — and  its  windows  had  been  heaved  out,  and 
inside  the  rooms  Belgian  soldiers  and  citizens  were  fling- 
ing out  tables  and  chairs  and  planks  and  wainscoting  to 
feed  the  bonfire  below,  and  every  time  the  flames  licked 
up  to  the  new  fuel  there  were  shouts  of  joy  from  the 
crowd. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  asked  Brand,  and  a  man  in  the 
crowd  told  us  that  the  house  had  been  used  as  the  head- 
quarters of  a  German  organisation  for  "Flemish  Activ- 
ists"— or  Flamagands,  as  they  were  called — whose  ob- 
ject was  to  divide  the  Walloons,  or  French-speaking  Bel- 
gians, from  the  Flemings,  in  the  interests  of  Germany. 

"It  is  the  people's  revenge  for  those  who  have  tried 
to  sow  seeds  of  hatred  among  them,"  said  the  man. 

Other  people  standing  by  spoke  disapprovingly  of  the 
scene. 

"The  Germans  have  made  too  many  fires  in  this  war," 
said  an  elderly  man  in  a  black  hat  with  a  high  crown 
and  broad  brim,  like  a  portrait  by  Franz  Hals.  "We 
don't  want  to  destroy  our  own  houses  now  the  enemy 
has  gone.  That  is  madness." 

"It  seems  unnecessary!"  said  Brand. 

As  we  made  our  way  back  we  saw  the  light  of  other 
fires,  and  heard  the  noise  of  smashing  glass  and  a  splint- 
ering of  wood-work.  The  mob  was  sacking  shops  which' 
had  traded  notoriously  with  the  Germans.  Out  of  one 
alley  a  man  came  running  like  a  hunted  animal.  We 
heard  his  breath  panting  as  he  passed.  A  shout  of 
"Flamagand!  Flamagand!"  followed  him,  and  in  an- 
other second  a  mob  had  caught  him.  We  heard  his 
death-cry,  before  they  killed  him  like  a  rat. 

Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world  had  such 
crowds  gathered  together  as  now  in  Brussels,  Ghent  or 
Liege.  French  and  English  soldiers  walked  the  same 
streets,  khaki  and  sky-blue  mingling.  These  two  races 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  151 

had  met  before,  not  as  friends,  in  some  of  these  towns — 
five  centuries  and  more  before  in  history.  But  here  also 
were  men  from  Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  South 
Africa,  and  the  New  World  which  had  come  to  the  old 
world  on  this  adventure,  paying  back  something  to  the 
old  blood  and  the  old  ghosts  because  of  their  heritage, 
yet  strangely  aloof  on  the  whole  from  these  continental 
peoples,  not  understanding  them,  despising  them. 

The  English  soldier  took  it  all  as  it  came,  with  that 
queer  adaptability  of  his  to  any  environment  or  any  ad- 
venture, with  his  simple  human  touch. 

"Better  than  the  old  Ypres  salient,"  said  one  of  them, 
grinning  at  me  after  a  game  of  Kiss-in-the-Ring  at  Ver- 
viers.  He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  face  and  neck,  and  as 
lie  raised  his  arm  I  saw  by  his  gold  stripes  that  he  had 
been  three  times  wounded.  Yes,  that  was  better  than 
the  old  Hell.  He  roared  with  laughter  when  one  of  his 
comrades  went  into  the  ring  with  a  buxom  girl  while 
the  crowd  danced  round  him,  holding  hands,  singing, 
laughing,  pulling  him  this  side  and  that. 

The  man  who  had  just  left  the  ring  spoke  to  me  again 
in  a  confidential  way. 

"My  wife  wouldn't  like  it  if  she'd  seen  me  just  then. 
I  shan't  tell  'er.  She  wouldn't  understand.  Nobody 
can  understand  the  things  we've  done,  the  things  we've 
thought,  nor  the  things  we've  seen,  unless  they've  been 
through  with  us  ...  and  we  don't  understand,  neither !" 

"Who  does  ?"  I  asked,  to  express  agreement  with  him, 
but  he  took  my  words  as  a  question  to  be  answered. 

"P'raps  Gord  knows.  If  so  'E's  a  Clever  One,  'E  is! 
...  I  wish  I  'ad  'alf  Ts  sense." 

He  drifted  away  from  me  with  a  gurgle  of  laughter 
at  a  girl  who  pushed  his  cap  on  one  side. 

Along  the  kerbstone  of  the  market-place  some  trans- 
port-wagons were  halted,  and  the  drivers  were  cooking 


152  WOUNDED  SOULS 

their  evening  meal  over  a  charcoal  stove,  as  though  on, 
one  of  the  roads  of  war,  while  a  crowd  of  Belgians  roared 
with  laughter  at  their  by-play  with  clasp-knives,  leaden 
spoons,  and  dixies.  One  of  them  was  a  cockney  humour- 
ist— his  type  was  always  to  be  found  in  any  group  of 
English  soldiers — and  was  performing  a  pantomime  for 
the  edification  of  the  onlookers,  and  his  own  pleasure. 

A  \^oman  standing  on  the  edge  of  this  scene  touched 
me  on  the  sleeve. 

"Are  you  going  forward  to  the  Rhine,  mon  lieutenant?" 

I  told  her  "yes,"  and  that  I  should  soon  be  among  the 
Germans. 

She  gave  a  littlertug  to  my  sleeve,  and  spoke  in  a  kind 
of  coaxing  whisper. 

"Be  cruel  to  them,  mon  lieutenant!  Be  hard  and  ruth- 
less. Make  them  suffer  as  we  have  suffered.  Tread  on 
their  necks,  so  that  they  squeal.  Soyez  cruel." 

Her  face  and  part  of  her  figure  were  in  the  glow  from 
the  charcoal  fire  of  the  transport  men,  and  I  saw  that  she 
was  a  little  woman,  neatly  dressed,  with  a  thin,  gentle, 
rather  worn-looking  face.  Those  words,  "Soyez  cruel!" 
gave  me  a  moment's  shock,  especially  because  of  the  soft, 
wheedling  tone  of  her  voice. 

"What  would  you  do,"  I  asked  in  a  laughing  way,  "if 
you  were  in  my  place  ?" 

"I  dream  at  nights  of  what  I  would  like  to  do.  There 
are  so  many  things  I  would  like  to  do,  for  vengeance. 
I  think  all  German  women  should  be  killed,  to  stop  them 
breeding.  That  is  one  thing." 

"And  the  next?"  I  asked. 

"It  would  be  well  to  kill  all  German  babies.  Perhaps 
the  good  God  will  do  it  in  His  infinite  wisdom." 

"You  are  religious,  madam?" 

"We  had  only  our  prayers,"  she  said,  with  piety. 

A  band  of  dancing  people  bore  down  upon  us  and  swept 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  153 

us  apart.  From  a  high  balcony  an  Italian  who  had  been 
a  prisoner  of  war  sang  "La  Marseillaise,"  and  though 
these  people's  ears  had  been  dinned  with  it  all  day,  though 
their  throats  were  hoarse  with  singing  it,  they  listened  to 
it  now,  again,  as  though  it  were  a  new  revelation.  The 
man  sang  with  passion  in  his  voice,  as  powerful  as  a 
trumpet,  more  thrilling  than  that.  The  passion  of  four 
years'  agony  in  some  foul  prison-camp  inspired  him 
now,  as  he  sang  that  song  of  liberty  and  triumph. 

"Aliens,  En  fonts  de  la  patrie! 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive!" 

The  crowd  took  up  the  song  again,  and  it  roared  across 
the  square  of  Verviers  until  another  kind  of  music  met, 
and  clashed  with  it,  and  overwhelmed  it  with  brazen  notes. 
It  was  the  Town-Band  of  Verviers,  composed  of  twenty- 
five  citizens,  mostly  middle-aged  and  portly — some  old 
and  scraggy,  in  long  frock-coats  and  tall  pot-hats. 
Solemnly,  with  puffed  cheeks,  they  marched  along,  part- 
ing the  waves  of  people  as  they  went,  as  it  seemed,  by 
the  power  of  their  blasts.  They  were  playing  an  old 
tune  called  Madefyn — its  refrain  comes  back  to  me  now 
with  the  picture  of  that  Carnival  in  Verviers,  with  all 
those  faces,  all  that  human  pressure  and  emotion, — and 
behind  them,  as  though  following  the  Pied  Piper  (twenty- 
five  Pied  Pipers!)  came  dancing  at  least  a  thousand  peo- 
ple, eight  abreast,  with  linked  arms,  or  linked  hands. 
They  were  young  Belgian  boys  and  girls,  old  Belgian 
men  and  women,  children,  British  soldiers,  American 
soldiers,  English,  Scottish,  Irish,  Canadian,  Australian, 
Russian,  and  Italian  ex-prisoners  of  war,  just  liberated 
from  their  prison-camps,  new  to  liberty.  They  were  all 
singing  that  old  song  of  "Madclon,"  and  all  dancing  in 
a  kind  of  jig.  Other  crowds  dancing  and  singing  came 
out  of  side-streets  into  the  wide  Grande  Place,  mingled, 


154.  WOUNDED  SOULS 

like  human  waves  meeting,  swirled  in  wild,  laughing 
eddies.  Carnival  after  the  long  fasting. 

Brand  clutched  me  by  the  arm  and  laughed  in  his 
deep  hollow  voice. 

"Look  at  that  old  satyr!  ...  I  believe  "Daddy" 
Small  is  Pan  himself!" 

It  was  the  little  Americafl  doctor.  He  was  in  the 
centre  of  a  row  of  eight  in  the  vanguard  of  a  dancing 
column.  A  girl  of  the  midinette  type — pretty,  impudent, 
wild-eyed,  with  a  strand  of  fair  hair  blowing  loose  from 
her  little  fur  cap — was  clinging  to  his  arm  on  one  side, 
while  on  the  other  was  a  stout  middle-aged  woman  with 
a  cheerful  Flemish  face  and  mirth-filled  eyes.  Linked 
up  with  the  others  they  jigged  behind  the  town  band. 
Dr.  Small's  little  grey  beard  had  a  raffish  look.  His 
field-cap  was  tilted  back  from  his  bony  forehead.  His 
spectacles  were  askew.  He  had  the  happy  look  of  care- 
less boyhood.  He  did  not  see  us  then,  but  later  in  the 
evening  detached  himself  from  the  stout  Flemish  lady 
who  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks,  and  made  his  way  to 
where  Brand  and  I  stood  under  the  portico  of  a  hotel. 

"Fie,  doctor!"  said  Brand.  "What  would  your  old 
patients  in  New  York  say  to  this  Bacchanalian  orgy?" 

"Sonny,"  said  the  doctor,  "they  wouldn't  believe  it! 
It's  incredible." 

He  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow,  threaded  his 
fingers  through  his  grey  beard,  and  laughed  in  that  shrill 
way  which  was  his  habit  when  excited. 

"My  word,  it  was  good  fun !  I  became  part  of  a  peo- 
ple's joy.  I  had  their  sense  of  escape  from  frightful 
things.  Youth  came  back  to  me.  Their  songs  danced  in 
my  blood.  In  spite  of  my  goggles  and  my  grey  beard 
that  buxom  lady  adored  me  as  though  I  were  the  young 
Adonis.  The  little  girl  clasped  my  hand  as  though  I 
were  her  younger  brother.  Time  rolled  back  from  the 


155 

world  Old  age  was  touched  with  the  divine  elixir.  In 
that  crowd  there  is  the  springtime  of  life,  when  Pan 
played  on  his  pipes  through  pagan  woods.  I  wouldn't 
have  missed  it  for  a  million  dollars !" 

That  night  Brand  and  I  and  some  others  (Charles 
Fortune  among  them)  were  billeted  in  a  small  hotel  which 
had  been  a  German  headquarters  a  few  days  before.  There 
was  a  piano  in  the  billiard  room,  and  Fortune  touched 
its  keys.  Several  notes  were  broken,  but  he  skipped  them 
deftly  and  improvised  a  musical  caricature  of  "Daddy" 
Small  dancing  in  the  Carnival.  He  too  had  seen  that 
astonishing  vision,  and  it  inspired  him  to  grotesque  fan- 
tasies. In  his  imagination  he  brought  a  great  general  to 
Verviers — "Blear-eyed  Bill,  the  Butcher  of  the  Boche" — 
and  gave  him  a  pas  seul  in  the  Grande  Place,  like  an 
elephant  gambolling  in  green  fields,  and  trumpeting  his 
joy. 

Young  Harding  was  moody,  and  confided  to  me  that 
he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  crossing  the  German  frontier 
and  going  to  Cologne. 

"There  will  be  dirty  work,"  he  said,  "as  sure  as  fate. 
The  Huns  will  begin  sniping,  and  then  we  shall  have  to 
start  reprisals.  Well,  if  they  ask  for  it  I  hope  we  shall 
give  it  to  them.  Without  mercy,  after  all  they  have  done. 
At  the  first  sign  of  treachery  I  hope  the  machine-guns 
will  begin  to  play.  Every  time  I  see  a  Hun  I  shall  feel 
like  slitting  his  throat." 

"Well,  you'll  get  into  a  murderous  state  of  mind,"  I 
answered  him.  "We  shall  see  plenty,  and  live  among 
them.  I  expect  they  will  be  tame  enough." 

"Some  poor  devils  of  ours  will  be  murdered  in  their 
beds,"  said  Harding.  "It  makes  my  blood  boil  to  think 
of  it.  I  only  hope  we  shan't  stand  any  nonsense.  I'd 
like  to  see  Cologne  Cathedral  go  up  in  flames.  That 
would  be  a  consolation." 


156  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Charles  Fortune  broke  away  from  his  musical  fantasy 
of  "Blear-eyed  Bill"  and  played  a  bar  or  two  of  the 
Marseillaise  in  rag-time.  It  was  a  greeting  to  Pierre 
Nesle,  who  came  into  the  room  quietly,  in  his  kepi  and 
heavy  motor-coat,  with  a  salute  to  the  company. 

"Bon  soir,  petit  Pierre!"  said  Fortune.  " Qu' est-ce- 
qu'il  y  d,  donc-quoif-aauec  fa  figure  si  sombre,  si  melan- 
colique,  d'une  tristesse  pitoyable " 

Pierre  Nesle  inspired  him  to  sing  a  little  old  French 
chanson  of  Pierrot  disconsolate. 

Pierre  had  just  motored  down  from  Lille — a  long  jour- 
ney— and  was  blue  with  cold,  as  he  said,  warming  his 
hands  at  the  charcoal  stove.  He  laughed  at  Fortune's 
jesting,  begged  a  cigarette  from  Harding,  apologised  for 
keeping  on  his  "stink-coat"  for  a  while  until  he  had 
thawed  out — and  I  admired  the  boy's  pluck  and  self- 
control.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  him  since  he 
had  gone  to  Lille  to  see  his  sister.  I  knew  by  the  new 
lines  about  his  eyes  and  mouth,  by  a  haggard,  older  look 
he  had  that  he  had  seen  that  sister  of  his — Marthe — and 
knew  her  tragedy. 

It  was  to  Brand's  room  that  he  went  after  midnight, 
and  from  Brand,  a  day  later,  I  heard  what  had  happened. 
He  had  begun  by  thanking  Brand  for  that  rescue  of  his 
sister  in  Lille,  in  a  most  composed  and  courteous  way. 
Then  suddenly  that  n>ask  fell  from  him,  and  he  sat  down 
heavily  in  a  chair,  put  his  head  down  on  his  arms  upon 
the  table,  and  wept  like  a  child,  in  uncontrollable  grief. 
Brand  was  immensely  distressed  and  could  not  think  of 
any  word  to  comfort  him.  He  kept  saying,  "Courage! 
Courage!"  as  I  had  said  to  Madame  Cheri  when  she 
broke  down  about  her  boy  Edouard,  as  the  young  Bar- 
onne  had  sent  word  to  Eileen  from  her  prison  death-bed, 
and  as  so  many  men  and  women  had  said  to  others  who 
had  been  stricken  by  the  cruelties  of  war. 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  157 

"The  boy  was  down  and  out,"  said  Brand.  "What 
could  I  say?  It  is  one  of  those  miseries  for  which  there 
is  no  cure.  He  began  to  talk  about  his  sister  when  they 
had  been  together  at  home,  in  Paris,  before  the  war.  She 
had  been  so  gay,  so  comradely,  so  full  of  adventure. 
Then  he  began  to  curse  God  for  having  allowed  so  much 
cruelty  and  men  for  being  such  devils.  He  cursed  the 
Germans,  but  then,  in  most  frightful  language,  most  bit- 
terly of  alf  he  cursed  the  people  of  Lille  for  having  tor- 
tured a  woman  who  had  been  starved  into  weakness,  and 
had  sinned  to  save  her  life.  He  contradicted  himself 
then,  violently,  and  said  'It  was  no  sin.  My  sister  was 
a  loyal  girl  to  France.  In  her  soul  she  was  loyal.  So 
she  swore  to  me  on  her  crucifix.  I  would  have  killed  her 
if  she  had  been  disloyal.'  ...  So  there  you  are!  Pierre 
Nesle  is  broken  on  the  wheel  of  war,  like  so  many  others. 
What's  the  cure?" 

"None,"  I  said,  "for  his  generation.  One  can't  undo 
the  things  that  are  done." 

Brand  was  pacing  up  and  down  his  bedroom,  where 
he  had  been  telling  me  these  things,  and  now,  at  my 
words,  he  stopped  and  stared  at  me  before  answering. 

"No.  I  think  you're  right.  This  generation  has  been 
hard-hit,  and  we  shall  go  about  with  unhealed  wounds. 
But  the  next  generation?  .  .  .  Let's  try  to  save  it  from 
all  this  horror!  If  the  world  will  only  understand " 

The  next  day  we  left  Verviers,  and  crossed  the  Ger- 
man frontier  on  the  way  to  the  Rhine. 


II 

BRAND  and  I,  who  were  inseparable  now,  and  young 
Harding,  who  had  joined  us,  crossed  the  Belgian 
frontier  with  our  leading  troop  of  cavalry — the  Dragoon 
Guards — and  entered  Germany  on  the  morning  of  Sep- 
tember 4.  For  three  days  our  advanced  cavalry  outposts 
had  been  halted  on  the  frontier  line  beyond  Verviers  and 
Spa.  The  scenery  had  become  German  already — hill- 
country,  with  roads  winding  through  fir  forests  above 
deep  ravines,  where  red  undergrowth  glowed  like  fire 
through  the  rich  green  of  fir-trees,  and  where,  on  the  hill- 
sides and  in  the  valleys,  were  wooden  chalets  and  villas 
with  pointed  turrets  like  those  in  the  Black  Forest. 

We  halted  this  side  of  a  little  stone  bridge  over  the 
stream  which  divides  the  two  countries.  A  picket  of 
Dragoons  was  holding  the  bridge  with  double  sentries, 
under  orders  to  let  no  man  pass  until  the  signal  was 
given  to  advance. 

"What's  the  name  of  this  place?"  asked  Brand  of  a 
young  cavalry  officer  smoking  a  cigarette  and  clapping 
his  hands  to  keep  warm. 

"Rothwasser,  sir,"  said  that  child,  removing  the  cigar- 
ette from  his  lips.  He  pointed  to  a  small  house  on  rising 
ground  beyond,  a  white  building  with  a  slate  roof,  and 
said: 

"That's  the  first  house  in  Germany.  I  don't  suppose 
they'll  invite  us  to  breakfast." 

Brand  and  I  leaned  over  the  stone  bridge,  watching 
and  listening  to  the  swirl  of  tawny  water  over  big  grey 
stones. 

158 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  159 

"The  Red  Water,"  said  Brand.  "Not  a  bad  name 
when  one  thinks  of  the  rivers  of  blood  that  have  flowed 
between  our  armies  and  this  place.  It's  been  a  long 
journey  to  this  little  bridge." 

We  stared  across  the  brook,  and  were  enormously 
stirred  (I  was,  at  least)  by  the  historic  meaning  of  this 
scene.  Over  there,  a  few  yards  away,  was  Germany,  the 
fringe  of  what  had  been  until  some  weeks  ago  the  mighty 
German  Empire.  Not  a  human  being  appeared  on  that 
side  of  the  stone  bridge.  There  was  no  German  sentry 
facing  ours.  The  gate  into  Germany  was  open  and  un- 
guarded. A  deep  silence  was  over  there  by  the  pine- 
woods  where  the  undergrowth  was  red.  I  wondered 
what  would  happen  when  we  rode  through  that  silence 
and  that  loneliness  into  the  first  German  town — Malmedy 
— and  afterwards  through  many  German  towns  and  vil- 
lages on  the  way  to  the  Rhine.  .  .  . 

Looking  back  on  that  adventure,  I  remember  our 
psychological  sensations,  our  surprise  at  the  things  which 
happened  and  failed  to  happen,  the  change  of  mind  which 
gradually  dawned  upon  some  of  our  officers,  the  in- 
credulity, resentment,  suspicion,  amazement,  which  over- 
came many  of  them  because  of  the  attitude  of  the  Ger- 
man people  whom  they  met  for  the  first  time  face  to  face 
without  arms  in  their  hands.  I  have  already  said  that 
many  of  our  officers  had  a  secret  dread  of  this  advance 
into  German  territory,  not  because  they  were  afraid  of 
danger  to  their  own  skins  but  because  they  had  a  greater 
fear  of  being  called  upon  to  do  "dirty  work"  in  the  event 
of  civilians  sniping  and  any  sign  of  the  franc-tireur. 
They  had  been  warned  by  the  High  Command  that  that 
might  happen,  and  that  there  must  be  a  ruthless  punish- 
ment of  any  such  crimes. 

"Our  turn  for  atrocities!"  whispered  young  cavalry 
officers,  remembering  Louvain  and  Alost,  and  they  hated 


160  WOUNDED  SOULS 

the  idea.  We  were  in  the  state  of  mind  which  led  to 
some  of  the  black  business  in  Belgium  when  the  Ger- 
mans first  advanced — nervous,  ready  to  believe  any, 
rumour  of  treacherous  attack,  more  afraid  of  civilian 
hostility  than  of  armed  troops.  A  single  shot  fired  by 
some  drunken  fool  in  a  German  village,  a  single  man 
of  ours  killed  in  a  brawl,  or  murdered  by  a  German  out 
for  vengeance,  might  lead  to  most  bloody  tragedy.  Ru- 
mour was  already  whispering  of  ghastly  things. 

I  remember  on  the  first  day  of  our  advance  meeting  a 
young  officer  of  ours  in  charge  of  an  armoured  car  which 
had  broken  down  across  the  frontier,  outside  a  village. 

"I'd  give  a  million  pounds  to  get  out  of  this  job,"  he 
said  gloomily. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

He  told  me  that  the  game  was  already  beginning,  and 
swore  frightful  oaths. 

"What  game?" 

"Murder,"  he  answered,  sharply.  "Don't  you  get  the 
news?  Two  of  our  fellows  have  been  killed  in  that  vil- 
lage. Sniped  from  the  windows.  Presently  I  shall  be 
told  to  sweep  the  streets  with  machine-guns.  Jolly  work, 
what?" 

He  was  utterly  wrong,  though  where  he  heard  the  lie 
which  made  him  miserable  I  never  knew.  I  walked  into 
the  village,  and  found  it  peaceful.  No  men  of  ours  had 
been  killed  there.  No  men  of  ours  had  yet  entered  it. 

The  boy  who  was  to  go  forward  with  the  leading 
cavalry  patrol  across  the  Rothwasser  that  morning  had 
"the  needle"  to  the  same  degree.  He  leaned  sideways  in 
his  saddle  and  confided  his  fears  to  me  with  laughter; 
which  did  not  conceal  his  apprehensions. 

"Hope  there's  no  trouble!  .  .  .  Haven't  the  ghost  of 
an  idea  what  to  do  if  the  Hun  turns  nasty.  I  don't  know 
a  word  of  their  beastly  language,  either!  If  I'm  the  boy 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  161 

who  take  the  wrong  turning,  don't  be  too  hard  on  me!" 

It  was  .a  Sunday  morning,  with  a  cold  white  fog  on  the 
hill-tops,  and  white  frost  on  fir-trees  and  red  bracken. 
Our  cavalry  and  horse  artillery,  with  their  transport 
drawn  up  on  the  Belgian  side  of  the  frontier  before  the 
bugle  sounded  for  the  forward  march,  were  standing 
by  their  horses,  clapping  hands,  beating  chests,  stamping 
feet.  The  men  wore  their  steel  hats  as  though  for  an 
advance  in  the  usual  conditions  of  warfare,  and  the 
troopers  of  the  leading  patrol  rode  forward  with  drawn 
swords.  They  rode  at  the  trot  through  pine  forests  along 
the  edge  of  deep  ravines  in  which  innumerable  "Christ- 
mas-trees" were  powdered  with  glistening  frost.  There 
was  the  beat  of  horses'  hoofs  on  frozen  roads,  but  the 
countryside  was  intensely  silent.  The  farmhouses  we 
passed  and  cottages  under  the  shelter  of  the  woods 
seemed  abandoned.  No  flags  hung  out  from  them  like 
those  millions  of  flags  which  had  fluttered  along  all  the 
miles  of  our  way  through  Belgium.  Now  and  again, 
looking  back  at  a  farmhouse  window,  I  saw  a  face  there, 
staring  out,  but  it  was  quickly  withdrawn.  A  dog  came 
out  and  barked  at  us  savagely. 

"First  sign  of  hostility!"  said  the  cavalry  lieutenant, 
turning  round  in  his  saddle  and  laughing  boyishly.  The 
troopers  behind  him  grinned  under  their  steel  hats,  and 
then  looked  stern  again,  glancing  sideways  into  the  glades 
of  those  silent  fir- woods. 

"It  would  be  easy  to  snipe  us  from  those  woods,"  said 
Harding.  "Too  damned  easy!" 

"And  quite  senseless,"  said  Brand.  "What  good  would 
it  do  them  ?" 

Harding  was  prepared  to  answer  the  question.  He  had 
been  thinking  it  out. 

"The  Hun  never  did  have  any  sense.  He's  not  likely 
to  get  it  now.  Nothing  will  ever  change  him.  He  is  a 


162  WOUNDED  SOULS 

bad,  treacherous,  evil  swine.  We  must  be  prepared  for 
the  worst,  and  if  it  comes " 

"What?"  asked  Brand. 

Harding  had  a  grim  look,  and  his  mouth  was  hard. 

"We  must  act  without  mercy,  as  they  did  in  Louvain." 

"Wholesale  murder,  you  mean?"  said  Brand,  harshly. 

"A  free  hand  for  machine-guns,"  said  Harding,  "if 
they  ask  for  it." 

Brand  gave  his  usual  groan. 

"Oh,  Lord!  .  .  .  Haven't  we  finished  with  blood?" 

We  dipped  down  towards  Malmedy.  There  was  a 
hairpin  turn  in  the  road,  and  we  could  see  the  town  below 
us  in  the  valley — a  German  town. 

"Pretty  good  map-reading!"  shouted  the  cavalry  kid. 
He  was  pleased  with  himself  for  having  led  his  troop  on 
the  right  road,  but  I  guessed  that  he  would  be  glad  to 
halt  this  side  of  the  mystery  that  lay  in  that  town  where 
Sunday  bells  were  ringing. 

A  queer  thing  happened  then.  Up  a  steep  bank  was  a 
party  of  girls.  German  girls,  of  course,  and  the  first 
civilians  we  had  seen.  A  flutter  of  white  handkerchiefs 
came  from  them.  They  were  waving  to  us. 

"Well,  I'm  damned !"  said  Harding. 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Brand,  ironically,  but  he  was  as 
much  astonished  as  all  of  us. 

When  we  came  into  Malmedy,  the  cavalry  patrol  halted 
in  the  market  square  and  dismounted.  It  was  about  mid- 
day, and  the  German  people  were  coming  out  of  church. 
Numbers  of  them  surrounded  us,  staring  at  the  horses, 
whose  sleek  look  seemed  to  amaze  them,  and  at  the  men 
who  lit  up  cigarettes  and  loosened  the  straps  of  their  steel 
hats.  Some  girls  patted  the  necks  of  the  horses,  and  said ; 

"Wunderschdn!" 

A  young  man  in  the  crowd,  in  black  civilian  clothes, 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  163 

with  a  bowler  hat,  spoke  in  perfect  English  to  the  ser- 
geant-major. 

"Your  horses  are  looking  fine!  Ours  are  skin  and 
bones.  When  will  the  infantry  be  here?" 

"Haven't  an  idea,"  said  the  sergeant-major  gruffly. 

Another  young  man  addressed  himself  to  me  in  French, 
which  he  spoke  as  though  it  were  his  native  tongue. 

"Is  this  the  first  time  you  have  been  in  Germany, 
monsieur?" 

I  told  him  I  had  visited  Germany  before  the  war. 

"You  will  find  us  changed,"  he  said.  "We  have  suf- 
fered very  much,  and  the  spirit  of  the  people  is  broken. 
You  see,  they  have  been  hungry  so  long." 

I  looked  round  at  the  crowd,  and  saw  some  bonny- 
faced  girls  among  them,  and  children  who  looked  well- 
fed.  It  was  only  the  younger  men  who  had  a  pinched 
look. 

"The  people  here  do  not  seem  hungry,"  I  said. 

He  explained  that  the  state  of  Malmedy  was  not  so 
bad.  It  was  only  a  big-sized  village  and  they  could  get 
products  from  the  farms  about.  All  the  same,  they  were 
on  short  commons  and  were  underfed.  Never  any  meat. 
No  fats.  "Ersatz"  coffee.  In  the  bigger  town  there  was 
real  hunger,  or  at  least  an  unterridhrung,  or  malnutrition, 
which  was  causing  disease  in  all  classes,  and  great  mor- 
tality among  the  children. 

"You  speak  French  well,"  I  told  him,  and  he  said  that 
many  people  in  Malmedy  spoke  French  and  German  in  a 
bi-lingual  way.  It  was  so  close  to  the  Belgian  frontier. 

"That  is  why  the  people  here  had  no  heart  in  the  war, 
even  in  the  beginning.  My  wife  was  a  Belgian  girl. 
When  I  was  mobilised  she  said,  'You  are  going  to  kill 
my  brothers,'  and  wept  very  much.  I  think  that  killed 
her.  She  died  in  '16." 

The  young  man  spoke  gravely  but  without  any  show  of 


164  WOUNDED  SOULS 

emotion.  He  narrated  his  personal  history  in  the  war. 
He  had  been  in  the  first  and  second  battles  of  Ypres, 
then  badly  wounded  and  put  down  at  the  base  as  a  clerk 
for  nearly  two  years.  After  that,  when  German  man- 
power was  running  short,  he  had  been  pushed  into  the 
ranks  again  and  had  fought  in  Flanders,  Cambrai,  and 
Valenciennes.'  Now  he  had  demobilised  himself. 

"I  am  very  glad  the  war  is  over,  monsieur.  It  was  a 
great  stupidity,  from  the  beginning.  Now  Germany  is 
ruined." 

He  spoke  in  a  simple,  matter-of-fact  way,  as  though 
describing  natural  disturbances  of  life,  regrettable,  but 
inevitable. 

I  asked  him  whether  the  people  farther  from  the  fron- 
tier would  be  hostile  to  the  English  troops,  and  he  seemed 
surprised  at  my  question. 

"Hostile!  Why,  sir?  ...  The  war  is  over  and  we 
can  now  be  friends  again.  Besides,  the  respectable  peo- 
ple and  the  middle-classes" — he  used  the  French  word 
bourgeoisie — "will  be  glad  of  your  coming.  It  is  a  pro- 
tection against  the  evil  elements  who  are  destroying  prop- 
erty and  behaving  in  a  criminal  way — the  sailors  of  the 
Fleet,  and  the  low  ruffians." 

The  "war  is  over  and  we  can  be  friends  again!  That 
sentence  in  the  young  man's  speech  astonished  me  by  its 
directness  and  simplicity.  Was  that  the  mental  attitude 
of  the  German  people?  Did  they  think  that  England 
would  forget  and  shake  hands?  Did  they  not  realise 
the  passion  of  hatred  that  had  been  aroused  in  England 
by  the  invasion  of  Belgium,  the  early  atrocities,  the  sub- 
marine war,  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania,  the  execution 
of  Nurse  Cavell,  the  air-raids  over  London — all  the  range 
and  sweep  of  German  fright  fulness? 

Then  I  looked  at  our  troopers.  Some  of  them  were 
chatting  with  the  Germans  in  a  friendly  way.  One  of 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  165 

them  close  to  me  gave  a  cigarette  to  a  boy  in  a  college 
cap  who  was  talking  to  him  in  schoolboy  English.  An- 
other was  in  conversation  with  two  German  girls  who 
were  patting  his  horse.  We  had  been  in  the  German 
village  ten  minutes.  There  was  no  sign  of  hatred  here, 
on  one  side  or  the  other.  Already  something  had  hap- 
pened which  in  England,  if  they  knew,  would  seem  mon- 
strous and  incredible.  A  spell  had  been  broken;  the  spell 
which,  for  four  years,  had  dominated  the  souls  of  men 
and  women.  At  least  it  seemed  to  have  been  broken  in 
the  village  where  for  the  first  time  English  soldiers  met 
the  people  of  the  nation  they  had  fought  and  beaten. 
These  men  of  the  first  cavalry  patrol  did  not  seem  to  be 
nourishing  thoughts  of  hatred  and  vengeance.  They  were 
not,  it  seemed,  remembering  atrocities.  They  were  meet- 
ing fellow-mortals  with  human  friendliness,  and  seemed 
inclined  to  talk  to  them  and  pass  the  time  of  day.  As- 
tounding ! 

I  saw  Wickham  Brand  talking  to  a  group  of  German 
children — boys  in  sailor  caps  with  the  words  Hinden- 
burg,  Kaiser  Wilhelm  der  Grosse,  Unterseeboot,  printed 
in  gold  letters  on  the  cap-bands,  and  girls  with  yellow 
pig-tails  and  coloured  frocks.  He  pulled  out  a  packet  of 
chocolate  from  a  deep  pocket  of  his  "British  warm,"  and 
broke  it  into  small  pieces. 

"Who  would  like  a  bit?"  he  asked  in  German,  and 
there  was  a  chorus  of  "Bitte!  .  .  .  Elite  schon!"  He 
held  out  a  piece  to  the  prettiest  child,  a  tiny  fairy-like 
thing  with  gold-spun  hair,  and  she  blushed  very  vividly, 
and  curtseyed  when  she  took  the  chocolate,  and  then 
kissed  Brand's  long  lean  hand.  Young  Harding  was 
standing  near.  He  had  an  utterly  bewildered  expression, 
as  a  man  who  sees  the  ground  work  of  his  faith  slipping 
beneath  him.  He  turned  to  me  as  I  strolled  his  way, 
and  looked  at  me  with  wide  astonished  eyes. 


166  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"I  don't  understand !"  he  stammered.  "Haven't  these 
people  any  pride?  This  show  of  friendliness — what  does 
it  mean?  I'd  rather  they  scowled  and  showed  their  hatred 
than  stand  round  fawning  on  us.  ...  And  our  men! 
They  don't  seem  to  bear  any  malice.  Look  at  that  fel- 
low gossiping  with  those  two  girls !  It's  shameful.  .  .  . 
What  have  we  been  fighting  for  if  it  ends  in  this  sort 
of  thing?  It  makes  it  all  a  farce!" 

He  was  so  disturbed,  so  unnerved  by  the  shock  of  his 
surprise,  that  there  were  tears  of  vexation  in  his  -eyes. 

I  could  not  argue  with  him,  or  explain  things  to  him. 
I  was  astonished  myself,  quite  baffled  by  a  German  friend- 
liness that  was  certainly  sincere  and  not  a  mask  hiding 
either  hatred  or  humiliation.  Those  people  of  Malmedy 
were  pleased  to  see  us !  As  yet  I  could  not  get  the  drift 
of  their  psychology,  in  spite  of  what  the  young  French- 
speaking  German  had  told  me.  I  gave  Harding  the* 
benefit  of  that  talk. 

"This  is  a  frontier  town,"  I  said.  "These  people  arff 
not  real  Germans  in  their  sympathies  and  ideas." 

That  seemed  to  comfort  Harding  a  little.  He  clung 
on  to  the  thought  that  when  we  had  got  beyond  the 
frontier  we  should  meet  the  hatred  he  expected  to  see. 
He  wanted  to  meet  it.  He  wanted  to  see  scowling  looks, 
deep  humiliation,  a  shameful  recognition  of  defeat,  the 
evil  nature  of  the  people  we  had  been  fighting.  Other- 
wise, to  him,  the  war  was  all  a  lie.  For  four  years  he 
had  been  inspired,  strengthened,  and  upheld  by  hatred  of 
the  Germans.  He  believed  not  only  in  every  atrocity 
story  that  appeared  in  English  newspapers,  but  also,  in 
accordance  with  all  else  he  read,  that  every  German  was 
essentially  and  unutterably  vile,  brutal,  treacherous,  and 
evil.  The  German  people  were  to  him  a  race  apart — the 
Huns.  They  had  nothing  in  •common  with  ordinary  hu- 
man nature,  with  its  kindliness  and  weakness.  They 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  167 

were  physically,  mentally,  and  morally  debased.  They 
were  a  race  of  devils,  and  they  could  not  be  allowed  to 
live.  Civilisation  could  only  be  saved  by  their  extermi- 
nation, or  if  that  were  impossible,  of  their  utter  sub- 
jection. All  the  piled-up  slaughter  of  British  youth  and 
French  youth  was  to  him  justified  by  the  conviction  that 
the  last  man  of  ours  must  die  if  need  be  in  order  to  crush 
Germany,  and  kill  Germans.  It  is  true  that  he  had  not 
died,  nor  even  had  been  wounded,  but  that  was  his  ill- 
luck.  He  had  been  in  the  cavalry,  and  had  not  been 
given  many  chances  of  fighting.  Before  the  last  phase, 
when  the  cavalry  came  into  their  own,  he  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  Intelligence  (though  he  did  not  speak  a 
word  of  German)  in  order  to  organise  their  dispatch- 
rider  service.  He  knew  nothing  about  dispatch-riding, 
but  his  cousin  was  the  brother-in-law  of  a  General's 
nephew,  and  he  had  been  highly  recommended  for  this 
appointment,  which  had  surprised  and  annoyed  him. 
Still,  as  a  young  man  who  believed  in  obedience  to 
authority,  and  in  all  old  traditional  systems,  such  as 
patronage  and  privilege,  he  had  accepted  the  post  with- 
out protest.  It  had  made  no  difference  to  his  con- 
suming hatred  of  the  Hun.  When  all  his  companions 
were  pessimistic  about  final  victory  he  had  remained  an 
optimist,  because  of  his  faith  that  the  Huns  must  be  de- 
stroyed, or  God  would  be  betrayed.  When  some  of  his 
colleagues  who  had  lived  in  Germany  before  the  war 
praised  the  German  as  a  soldier  and  exonerated  the  Ger- 
man people  from  part  at  least  of  the  guilt  of  their  war 
lords,  he  tried  to  conceal  his  contempt  for  this  folly  (due 
to  the  mistaken  generosity  of  the  English  character) 
and  repeated  his  own  creed  of  abhorrence  for  their  race 
and  character.  "The  only  good  German  is  a  dead  Ger- 
man," he  said,  a  thousand  times,  to  one's  arguments 
pleading  extenuating  circumstances  for  German  peasants, 


168  WOUNDED  SOULS 

German  women,  German  children.  .  .  .  But  now  in  this 
village  of  Malmedy  on  our  first  morning  across  the  fron- 
tier, within  three  minutes  of  our  coming,  English  troop- 
ers were  chatting  with  Germans  as  though  nothing  had 
happened  to  create  ill-feeling  on  either  side.  Brand  was 
giving  chocolate  to  German  children,  and  German  girls 
were  patting  the  necks  of  English  horses ! 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  my  attempted  explanation.  "We're 
too  close  to  the  frontier.  These  people  are  different. 
Wait  till  we  get  on  a  bit.  I'm  convinced  we  shall  have 
trouble,  and  at  the  slightest  sign  of  it  we  shall  sweep  the 
streets  with  machine-gun  fire.  I've  got  my  own  revolver 
handy,  and  I  mean  to  use  it  without  mercy  if  there's  any 
treachery." 


Ill 

TLTARDING  had  no  need  to  use  his  revolver  on  the 
•*•  •*•  way  to  the  Rhine,  or  in  Cologne,  where  he  stayed 
for  some  months  after  Armistice.  We  went  on  with  the 
cavalry  into  many  villages  and  small  towns,  by  slow 
stages,  the  infantry  following  behind  in  strength,  with 
guns  and  transport.  The  girls  outside  Malmedy  were  not 
the  only  ones  who  waved  handkerchiefs  at  us.  Now  and 
then,  it  is  true,  there  were  scowling  looks  from  men  who 
had,  obviously,  been  German  officers  until  a  few  weeks 
ago.  Sometimes  in  village  inns  the  German  innkeeper 
would  be  sullen  and  silent,  leaving  his  wife  or  his  maid- 
servant to  wait  upon  us.  But  even  that  was  rare.  More 
often  there  was  frank  curiosity  in  the  eyes  of  the  people 
who  stared  at  us,  and  often  unconcealed  admiration  at 
the  smart  appearance  of  our  troops.  Often  German  inn- 
keepers welcomed  our  officers  with  bows  and  smiles  and 
prepared  meat  meals  for  us  (in  the  country  districts), 
while  explaining  that  meat  was  scarce  and  hardly  tasted 
by  ordinary  folk.  Their  wives  and  their  maidservants 
praised  God  that  the  war  was  over. 

"It  lasted  too  long!"  they  said.  "Oh,  the  misery  of 
it !  It  was  madness  to  slaughter  each  other  like  that !" 

Brand  and  I  went  into  a  little  shop  to  buy  a  tooth- 
brush. / 

The  woman  behind  the  counter  talked  about  the  war. 

"It  was  due  to  the  wickedness  of  great  people,"  she 
said.  "There  are  many  people  who  grew  rich  out  of 
the  war.  They  wanted  it  to  go  on,  and  on,  so  that  they 

169 


170  WOUNDED  SOULS 

could  get  more  rich.  They  gorged  themselves  while  the 
poor  starved.  It  was  the  poor  who  were  robbed  of  their 
life-blood." 

She  did  not  speak  passionately,  but  with  a  dull  kind  of 
anger. 

"My  own  life-blood  was  taken,"  she  said  presently, 
after  wrapping  up  the  toothbrush.  "First  they  took 
Hans,  my  eldest.  He  was  killed  almost  at  once — at 
Liege.  Then  they  took  my  second-born,  Friedrich.  He 
was  killed  at  Ypers.  Next,  Wilhelm  died — in  hospital  at 
Brussels.  He  had  both  his  legs  blown  off.  Last  they 
took  little  Karl,  my  youngest.  He  was  killed  by  an  air- 
bomb,  far  behind  the  lines,  near  Valenciennes." 

A  tear  splashed  on* the  bit  of  paper  in  which  she  had 
wrapped  the  toothbrush.  She  wiped  it  away  with  her 
apron. 

"My  man  and  I  are  now  alone,'  she  said,  handing  us 
the  packet.  "We  are  too  old  to  have  more  children.  We 
sit  and  talk  of  our  sons  who  are  dead,  and  wonder  why 
God  did  not  stop  the  war." 

"It  is  sad,"  said  Brand.  He  could  find  nothing  else 
to  say.  Not  with  this  woman  could  he  argue  about  Ger- 
man guilt. 

"Ja,  es  ist  traurig." 

She  took  the  money,  with  a  "Danke  schon." 

In  the  town  of  Miirren  I  spent  some  time  with  Brand 
and  others  in  the  barracks  where  a  number  of  trench- 
mortars  and  machine-guns  were  being  handed  over  by 
German  officers  according  to  the  terms  of  the  Armistice. 
The  officers  were  mostly  young  men,  extremely  polite, 
anxious  to  save  us  any  kind  of  trouble,  marvellous  in 
their  concealment  of  any  kind  of  humiliation  they  may 
have  felt — must  have  felt — in  this  delivery  of  arms. 
They  were  confused  only  for  one  moment,  and  that  was 
when  a  boy  with  a  wheelbarrow  trundled  by  with  a  load 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  171 

of  German  swords — elaborate  parade  swords  with  gold 
hilts. 

One  of  them  laughed  and  passed  it  off  with  a  few 
words  in  English. 

"There  goes  the  old  pomp  and  glory — to  the  rubbish- 
heap!" 

Brand  made  things  easier  by  a  tactful  sentence. 

"The  world  will  be  happier  when  we  are  all  disarmed." 

A  non-commissioned  officer  talked  to  me.  He  had 
been  a  hair-dresser  in  Bayswater  and  a  machine-gunner 
in  Flanders.  He  was  a  little  fellow  with  a  queer  Cockney 
accent. 

"Germany  is  kaput.  We  shall  have  a  bad  time  in  front 
of  us.  No  money.  No  trade.  All  the  same  it  will  be 
better  in  the  long  run.  No  more  conscription;  no  more 
filthy  war.  We're  all  looking  to  President  Wilson  and 
his  Fourteen  Points.  There  is  the  hope  of  the  world. 
We  can  hope  for  a  good  Peace — fair  all  round.  O£ 
course  we'll  have  to  pay,  but  we  shall  get  Liberty,  like 
in  England." 

Was  the  man  sincere?  Were  any  of  these  people  sin- 
cere ?  or  were  they  crawling,  fawning,  hiding  their  hatred, 
ready  for  any  treachery?  I  could  not  make  up  my 
mind.  .  .  . 

We  went  into  Cologne  some  days  before  our  pro- 
gramme at  the  urgent  request  of  the  Burgermeister.  We 
were  invited  in!  The  German  seamen  of  the  Grand 
Fleet  had  played  the  devil,  as  in  all  the  towns  they  had 
passed  through.  They  had  established  a  Soldiers'  and 
Workmen's  Council  on  the  Russian  system,  raised  the 
Red  Flag,  liberated  the  criminals  from  the  prisons.  Shops 
had  been  sacked,  houses  looted.  The  Burgermeister  de- 
sired British  troops  to  ensure  law  and  order. 

There  was  no  disorder  visible  when  we  entered  Co- 
logne. The  Revolutionaries  had  disappeared.  The  streets 


172  WOUNDED  SOULS 

were  thronged  with  middle-class  folk  among  whom  were 
thousands  of  men  who  had  taken  off  their  uniforms  a 
few  days  before  our  coming,  or  had  "civilised"  them- 
selves by  tearing  off  their  shoulder-straps  and  badges. 
As  our  first  squadron  rode  into  the  great  Cathedral 
Square  on  the  way  to  the  Hohenzollern  bridge  many 
people  in  the  crowds  turned  their  heads  away  and  did  not 
glance  at  the  British  cavalry.  We  were  deliberately 
ignored,  and  I  thought  that  for  the  Germans  it  was  the 
best  attitude,  with  most  dignity.  Others  stared  gravely  at 
the  passing  cavalcade,  showing  no  excitement,  no  hos- 
tility, no  friendliness,  no  emotion  of  any  kind.  Here  and 
there  I  met  eyes  which  were  regarding  me  with  a  dark, 
brooding  look,  and  others  in  which  there  was  profound 
melancholy.  That  night,  when  I  wandered  out  alone  and 
lost  my  way,  and  asked  for  direction,  two  young  men, 
obviously  officers  until  a  few  days  back,  walked  part  of 
the  way  to  put  me  right,  and  said,  "Bitte  schon!  Bitte 
schon!"  when  I  thanked  them,  and  saluted  with  the  ut- 
most courtesy.  ...  I  wondered  what  would  have  hap- 
pened in  London  if  we  had  been  defeated  and  if  German 
officers  had  walked  out  alone  at  night  and  lost  themselves 
in  by-streets,  and  asked  the  way.  Imagination  fails  be- 
fore such  a  thought.  Certainly  our  civility  would  not 
have  been  so  easy.  We  could  not  have  hidden  our  hatred 
like  that,  if  these  were  hiding  hatred. 

Somehow  I  could  not  find  even  the  smouldering  fires  of 
hate  in  any  German  with  whom  I  spoke  that  day.  I  could 
find  only  a  kind  of  dazed  and  stupor-like  recognition  of 
defeat,  a  deep  sadness  among  humble  people,  a  profound 
anxiety  as  to  the  future  fate  of  a  ruined  Germany,  and  a 
hope  in  the  justice  of  England  and  America. 

A  score  of  us  had  luncheon  at  the  Domhof  Hotel, 
opposite  the  Cathedral  which  Harding  had  hoped  to 
see  in  flames.  The  manager  bowed  us  in  as  if  we  had 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  173 

been  distinguished  visitors  in  time  of  peace.  The  head- 
waiter  handed  us  the  menu  and  regretted  that  there  was 
not  much  choice  of  food,  though  they  had  scoured  the 
country  to  provide  for  us.  He  and  six  other  waiters 
spoke  good  English,  learnt  in  London,  and  seemed  to 
have  had  no  interruption  in  their  way  of  life,  in  spite  of 
war.  They  were  not  rusty  in  their  art,  but  masters  of 
its  service  according  to  tradition.  Yet  they  had  all  been 
in  the  fighting-ranks  until  the  day  of  armistice,  and  the 
head-waiter,  a  man  of  forty,  with  hair  growing  grey,  and 
the  look  of  one  who  had  spent  years  in  a  study  rather 
than  in  front-line  trenches  after  table  management,  told 
me  that  he  had  been  three  times  wounded  in  Flanders, 
and  in  the  last  phase  had  been  a  machine-gunner  in  the 
rearguard  actions  round  Grevilliers  and  Bapaume.  He 
revealed  his  mind  to  me  between  the  soup  and  the  stew — 
strange  talk  from  a  German  waiter! 

"I  used  to  ask  myself  a  hundred  thousand  times,  'Why 
am  I  here — in  this  mud — fighting  against  the  English 
whom  I  know  and  like?  What  devil's  meaning  is  there 
in  all  this?  What  are  the  evil  powers  that  have  forced 
us  to  this  insane  massacre  ?'  I  thought  I  should  go  mad, 
and  I  desired  death." 

I  did  not  argue  with  him,  for  the  same  reason  that 
Brand  and  I  did  not  argue  with  the  woman  behind  the 
counter  who  .had  lost  four  sons.  I  did  not  say  "Your 
War  Lords  were  guilty  of  this  war.  The  evil  passion 
and  philosophy  of  you  German  people  brought  this  upon 
the  world — your  frightfulness."  I  listened  to  a  man 
who  had  been  stricken  by  tragedy,  who  had  passed 
through  its  horrors,  and  was  now  immensely  sad. 

At  a  small  table  next  to  us  was  the  boy  who  had  led 
the  first  cavalry  patrol,  and  two  fellow-officers.  They 
were  not  eating  their  soup.  They  were  talking  to  the 


174  WOUNDED  SOULS 

waiter,  a  young  fellow  who  was  making  a  map  with 
knives  and  spoons. 

"This  is  the  village  of  Fontaine  Notre  Dame,"  he  said. 
"I  was  just  here  with  my  machine-gun  when  you  at- 
tacked." 

"Extraordinary!"  said  one  of  the  young  cavalry  offi- 
cers. "I  was  here,  at  the  corner  of  this  spoon,  lying  on 
my  belly,  with  my  nose  in  the  mud — scared  stiff !" 

The  German  waiter  and  the  three  officers  laughed  to- 
gether. Something  had  happened  which  had  taken  away 
from  them  the  desire  to  kill  each  other.  Our  officers 
did  not  suspect  there  might  be  poison  in  their  soup.  The 
young  waiter  was  not  nervous  lest  one  of  the  knives  he 
laid  should  be  thrust  into  his  heart.  .  .  . 

Some  nights  later  I  met  Wickham  Brand  in  the  Hohe- 
strasse.  He  took  me  by  the  arm  and  laughed  in  strange, 
ironical  way. . 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  that  if  old  men  from  St.  James's  Street 
clubs  in  London,  and  young  women  in  the  suburbs 
clamouring  for  the  Kaiser's  head,  could  be  transported 
straight  to  Cologne  without  previous  warning  of  the 
things  they  would  see,  they  would  go  raving  mad. 

Brand  agreed. 

"It  knocks  one  edgewise.  Even  those  of  us  who 
understand." 

We  stood  on  one  side,  by  a  shop  window  filled  with 
beautiful  porcelain-ware,  and  watched  the  passing  crowd. 
It  was  a  crowd  of  German  middle-class,  well-dressed,  ap- 
parently well-fed.  The  girls  wore  heavy  furs.  The 
men  were  in  black  coats  and  bowler  hats,  or  in  military 
overcoats  and  felt  hats.  Among  them,  not  aloof  but 
mingling  with  them,  laughing  with  them,  were  English 
and  Canadian  soldiers.  Many  of  them  were  arm-in-arm 
with  German  girls.  Others  were  surrounded  by  groups 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  175 

of  young1  Germans  who  had  been,  unmistakably,  soldiers 
until  a  few  weeks  earlier.  English-speaking  Germans 
were  acting  as  interpreters,  in  the  exchange  of  experi- 
ences, gossip,  opinions.  The  German  girls  needed  no  in- 
terpreters. Their  eyes  spoke,  and  their  laughter. 

Brand  and  I  went  into  an  immense  cafe  called  the 
"Germania,"  so  densely  crowded  that  we  had  to  wander 
round  to  find  a  place,  foggy  with  tobacco-smoke,  through 
which  electric  light  blazed,  noisy  with  the  music  of  a 
loud,  unceasing  orchestra,  which,  as  we  entered,  was 
playing  selections  from  "Patience."  Here  also  were 
many  English  and  Canadian  officers,  and  men,  sitting  at 
the  same  tables  with  Germans  who  laughed  and  nodded 
at  them,  clinked  their  mugs  or  wine-glasses  with  them, 
and  raised  bowler  hats  to  British  Tommies  when  they 
left  the  tables  with  friendly  greetings  on  both  sides. 
There  was  no  orgy  here,  no  impropriety.  Some  of  the 
soldiers  were  becoming  slightly  fuddled  with  Rhine  wine, 
but  not  noisily.  "Glad  eyes"  were  passing  between  them 
and  German  girls,  or  conversations  made  up  by  winks 
and  signs  and  oft-repeated  words;  but  all  quietly  and 
respectfully,  in  outward  behaviour. 

Brand  and  I  were  wedged  close  to  a  table  at  which  sat 
one  of  our  sergeant-majors,  a  corporal,  a  middle-aged 
German  woman,  and  two  German  girls.  One  of  the 
girls  spoke  English,  remarkably  well,  and  the  conversa- 
tion of  our  two  men  was  directed  to  her,  and  through 
her  with  the  others.  Brand  and  I  were  eavesdroppers. 

"Tell  your  Ma,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  "that  I 
shouldn't  have  been  so  keen  to  fight  Germans  if  I  had 
known  they  were  such  pleasant,  decent  people,  as  far  as 
I  find  'em  at  present,  and  I  take  people  as  I  find  'em." 

The  girl  translated  to  her  mother  and  sister,  and  then 
answered : 

"My  mother  says  the  war  was  prepared  by  the  Rich 


176  WOUNDED  SOULS 

People  in  Europe,  who  made  the  people  mad  by  lies." 

"Ah,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  "I  shouldn't  wonder! 
I  know  some  of  them  swine.  All  the  same,  of  course, 
you  began  it,  you  know." 

There  was  another  translation  and  the  girl  answered 
again  : 

"My  mother  says  the  Germans  didn't  begin  it.  The 
Russians  began  it  by  moving  their  Armies.  The  Rus- 
sians hated  us  and  wanted  war." 

The  sergeant-major  gave  a  snort  of  laughter. 

"The  Russians?  .  .  .  They  soon  tired  of  it,  anyhow. 
Let  us  all  down,  eh?" 

"What  about  atrocities?"  said  the  corporal,  who  was 
a  Cockney. 

"Atrocities?"  said  the  English-speaking  girl.  "Oh, 
yes,  there  were  many.  The  Russians  were  very  cruel." 

"Come  off  it!"  said  the  corporal.  "I  mean  German 
atrocities." 

"German  ?"  said  the  girl.  "No,  our  soldiers  were  well- 
behaved — always!  There  were  many  lies  told  in  the 
English  papers." 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  the  sergeant-major. 
"Lies?  Why,  they  fed  us  up  with  lies.  'The  Germans 
are  starving.  The  Germans  are  on  their  last  legs/  'The 
great  victory  at  Neuve  Chapelle !'  God !  I  was  in  that 
great  victory.  The  whole  battalion  cut  to  pieces,  and 
not  an  officer  left.  A  bloody  shambles — and  no  sense  in 
it.  ...  Another  drop  of  wine,  my  dear?" 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  the  cockney  corporal,  "that  there 
was  a  deal  of  dirty  work  on  both  sides.  I'm  not  going 
to  say  there  wasn't  no  German  atrocities — lies  or  no 
lies — becos'  I  saw  a  few  of  'em  myself,  an'  no  mistake. 
But  what  I  says  now  is  what  I  says  when  I  lay  in  the 
lousy  trenches  with  five-point-nines  busting  down  the 
parapets.  'The  old  devil  'as  got  us  all  by  the  legs!'  I 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  177 

said,  and  'ad  a  fellow- feelin'  for  the  poor  blighters  on 
the  other  side  of  the  barbed  wire  lying  in  the  same  old 
mud.  Now  I'm  beginning  to  think  the  Germans  are  the 
same  as  us,  no  better,  nor  no  worse,  I  reckon.  Any'ow, 
you  can  tell  your  sister,  miss,  that  I  like  the  way  she  does 
'er  'air.  It  reminds  me  of  my  Liz." 

The  English-speaking  German  girl  did  not  understand 
this  speech.  She  appealed  to  the  sergeant-major. 

"What  does  your  friend  say?" 

The  sergeant-major  roared  with  laughter. 

"My  chum  says  that  a  pretty  face  cures  a  lot  of  ill- 
feeling.  Your  sister  is  a  sweet  little  thing,  he  says. 
Comprenney?  Perhaps  you  had  better  not  translate  that 
part  to  your  Ma.  .  .  .  Have  another  drop  of  wine,  my 
dear." 

Presently  the  party  rose  from  the  table  and  went  out, 
the  sergeant-major  paying  for  the  drinks  in  a  lordly  way, 
and  saying,  "After  you,  ma'am,"  to  the  mother  of  the 
two  girls. 

"All  this,"  said  Brand  when  they  had  gone,  "is  very 
instructive.  .  .  .  And  I've  been  making  discoveries." 

"What  kind?" 

Brand  looked  away  into  the  vista  of  the  room,  and  his 
eyes  roved  about  the  tables  where  other  soldiers  of  ours 
sat  with  other  Germans. 

"I've  found  out,"  he  said,  "that  the  British  hatred  of 
a  nation  breaks  down  in  the  presence  of  its  individuals. 
I've  discovered  that  it  is  not  in  the  character  of  Eng- 
lish fighting-men — Canadian,  too,  by  the  look  of  it — to 
demand  vengeance  from  the  innocent  for  the  sins  of  the 
guilty.  I'm  seeing  that  human  nature,  ours  anyhow, 
swings  back  to  the  normal,  as  soon  as  an  abnormal  strain 
is  released.  It  is  normal  in  human  nature  to  be  friendly 
towards  its  kind,  in  spite  of  five  years'  education  in 
savagery." 


178  WOUNDED  SOULS 

I  doubted  that,  and  told  him  so,  remembering  scenes 
in  Ghent  and  Lille,  and  that  girl  Marthe,  and  the  woman 
of  Verviers.  That  shook  Brand  a  little  from  his  new 
point  of  view  and  he  shifted  his  ground,  with  the  words: 

"Perhaps  I'm  wrong,  there." 

He  told  me  of  other  "discoveries"  of  his,  after  conver- 
sation with  many  German  people,  explaining  perhaps  the 
lack  of  hostility  and  humiliation  which  had  surprised  us 
all.  They  were  glad  to  see  the  English  because  they  were 
afraid  of  the  French  and  Belgians,  with  their  desire  for 
vengeance.  They  believed  in  English  fair-play  in  spite 
of  all  the  wild  propaganda  of  the  war.  Now  that  the 
Kaiser  had  fled  and  Germany  was  a  Republic,  they  be- 
lieved that  in  spite  of  defeat,  and  great  ruin,  there  would 
be  a  Peace  which  would  give  them  a  chance  of  recovery, 
and  a  new  era  of  liberty,  according  to  the  pledges  of 
President  Wilson  and  the  terms  of  the  "Fourteen 
Points."  They  believed  they  had  been  beaten  by  the 
hunger  blockade,  and  not  by  the  failure  of  the  German 
Armies  in  the  field,  and  they  would  not  admit  that  as  a 
people  they  were  more  guilty  in  the  war  than  any  others 
of  the  fighting  nations. 

"It  is  a  sense  of  guilt,"  said  Brand,  "that  must  be 
brought  home  to  them.  They  must  be  convinced  of  that 
before  they  can  get  clean  again,  and  gain  the  world's 
forgiveness." 

He  leaned  over  the  table  with  his  square  face  in  the 
palms  of  his  hands. 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  "that  there  was  evil  on  both 
sides.  We  have  our  Junkerdom  too.  The  philosophy 
of  our  Old  Men  was  not  shining  in  its  Christian  charity. 
We  share  the  guilt  of  the  war.  Still,  the  Germans  were 
the  aggressors.  They  must  acknowledge  that." 

"The  German  war-lords  and  militarists,"  I  suggested. 
"Not  that  woman  who  lost  her  four  sons,  nor  peasants 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  179 

dragged  from  their  ploughs,  ignorant  of  Welt-politik." 

"It's  all  a  muddle,"  said  Brand.  "I  can't  sort  it  out. 
I'm  full  of  bewilderment  and  contradictions.  Sometimes 
when  I  look  at  these  Germans  in  the  streets,  some  of 
them  so  smug,  I  shudder  and  say,  'These  are  the  people 
who  killed  my  pals,'  and  I'm  filled  with  cold  rage.  But 
when  they  tell  me  all  they  suffered,  and  their  loathing  of 
the  war,  I  pity  them  and  say,  'They  were  trapped,  like  we 
were,  by  false  ideas,  and  false  systems,  and  the  foul  lies 
of  politicians,  and  the  dirtiness  of  old  diplomacy,  and 
the  philosophy  of  Europe,  leading  up  to  That/' 

Then  he  told  me  something  which  interested  me  more 
at  the  time  than  his  groping  to  find  truth,  because  a 
touch  of  personal  drama  is  always  more  striking  to  the 
mind  than  general  aspects  and  ideas. 

"I'm  billeted  at  the  house  of  Franz  von  Kreuzenach. 
You  remember? — Eileen's  friend." 

I  was  astounded  at  that. 

"What  an  amazing  coincidence!" 

"It  was  no  coincidence,"  he  said.  "I  arranged  it.  I 
had  that  letter  to  deliver  and  I  wanted  to  meet  the  fel- 
low. As  yet,  however,  I  have  only  seen  his  mother  and 
sister.  They  are  very  civil." 

So  did  Wickham  Brand  "ask  for  trouble,"  as  soldiers 
say,  and  certainly  he  found  it  before  long. 


TV, 


THE  first  meeting  between  Wickham  Brand  and 
young  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  had  been  rather 
dramatic,  according  to  my  friend's  account  of  it,  and 
he  did  not  dramatise  his  stories  much,  in  spite  of  being 
(before  the  war)  an  unsuccessful  novelist.  It  had  hap- 
pened on  the  third  night  after  his  presentation  of  the 
billeting-paper  which  by  military  right  of  occupation  or- 
dered the  owners  of  the  house  to  provide  a  bedroom  and 
sitting-room  for  an  officer.  There  had  been  no  trouble 
about  that.  The  Mddchen  who  had  answered  the  door 
of  the  big  white  house  in  a  side  street  off  the  Kaiserring 
had  dropped  a  curtsey,  and  in  answer  to  Brand's  fluent 
and  polite  German  said  at  once,  "Kommen  Sie  herein, 
bitte"  and  took  him  into  a  drawing-room  to  the  right  of 
the  hall,  leaving  him  there  while  she  went  to  fetch  "die 
gnadige  Baronin,"  that  is  to  say  the  Baroness  von 
Kreuzenach.  Brand  remained  standing,  and  studied  the 
German  drawing-room  to  read  its  character  as  a  key  to 
that  of  the  family  under  whose  roof  he  was  coming  by 
right  of  conquest,  for  that,  in  plain  words,  was  the  mean- 
ing of  his  presence. 

It  was  a  large  square  room,  handsomely  and  heavily 
furnished  in  an  old-fashioned  style,  belonging  perhaps 
to  the  Germany  of  Bismarck,  but  with  here  and  there  in 
its  adornment  a  lighter  and  more  modern  touch.  On 
one  wall,  in  a  gilt  frame  to  which  fat  gilt  cupids  clung, 
was  a  large  portrait  of  William  I.  of  Prussia,  and  on  the 
wall  opposite,  in  a  similar  frame,  a  portrait  of  the  ex- 

180  -- 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  181 

Kaiser  William  II.  Brand  saw  also,  with  an  instant 
thrill  of  remembrance,  two  large  steel  engravings  from 
Winterhalter's  portraits  of  Queen  Victoria  and  Prince 
Albert.  He  had  seen  them,  as  a  child,  in  his  grand- 
father's house  at  Kew,  and  in  the  houses  of  school- 
fellows' grandfathers,  who  cherished  these  representa- 
tions of  Victoria  and  Albert  with  almost  religious  loyalty. 
The  large  square  of  Turkey  carpet  on  polished  boards, 
a  mahogany  sideboard,  and  some  stiff  big  arm-chairs  of 
clumsily-carved  oak,  were  reminiscent  of  German  furni- 
ture and  taste  in  the  period  of  the  mid-nineteenth  century, 
when  ours  was  equally  atrocious.  The  later  period  had 
obtruded  itself  into  that  background.  There  was  a 
piano  in  white  wood  at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  here 
and  there  light  chairs  in  the  "New  Art"  style  of  Ger- 
many, with  thin  legs  and  straight  uncomfortable  backs. 
The  most  pleasing  things  in  the  room  were  some  porce- 
lain figures  of  Saxon  and  Hanover  ware,  little  German 
ladies  with  pleated  gowns  and  low-necked  bodices,  and, 
on  the  walls,  a  number  of  water-colour  drawings,  mostly 
of  English  scenes,  delicately  done,  with  vision  and  a 
nice  sense  of  atmosphere. 

"The  younger  generation  thrusting  out  the  old," 
thought  Brand,  "and  the  spirit  of  both  of  them  destroyed 
by  what  has  happened  in  five  years." 

The  door  opened,  he  told  me,  when  he  had  taken 
stock  of  his  surroundings,  and  there  came  in  two  women, 
one  middle-aged,  the  other  young.  He  guessed  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  Frau  von  Kreuzenach  and  her 
daughter,  and  made  his  bow,  with  an  apology  for  intrud- 
ing upon  them.  He  hoped  that  they  would  not  be  in 
the  least  degree  disturbed  by  his  billeting-order.  He 
would  need  only  a  bedroom  and  his  breakfast. 

The  Baroness  was  courteous  but  rather  cold  in  her 
dignity.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  of  about  forty- 


182  WOUNDED  SOULS 

eight,  with  very  fair  hair  streaked  with  grey,  and  a  thin, 
aristocratic  type  of  face,  with  thin  lips.  She  wore  a 
black  silk  dress  with  some  fur  round  her  shoulders. 

"It  will  be  no  inconvenience  to  us,  sir,"  she  answered 
in  good  English,  a  little  hard  and  over-emphasised.  "Al- 
though the  English  people  are  pleased  to  call  us  Huns" — 
here  she  laughed  good-humouredly — "I  trust  that  you 
will  not  be  too  uncomfortable  in  a  German  house,  in 
spite  of  the  privations  due  to  our  misfortunes  and  the 
severity  of  your  blockade." 

In  that  short  speech  there  was  a  hint  of  hostility — - 
masked  under  a  graciousness  of  manner — which  Wick- 
ham  Brand  did  not  fail  to  perceive. 

"As  long  as  it  is  not  inconvenient "  he  said,  awk- 
wardly. 

It  was  the  daughter  who  now  spoke,  and  Brand  was 
grateful  for  her  friendly  words,  and  impressed  by  her 
undeniable  and  exceptional  good  looks.  That  she  was 
the  daughter  of  the  older  woman  was  clear  at  a  glance. 
She  had  the  same  thin  face  and  fair  hair,  but  Youth  was 
on  her  side,  and  her  finely-chiselled  features  had  no  hard- 
ness of  line  that  comes  from  age  or  bitterness.  Her  hair 
was  like  spun  gold,  as  one  sees  it  in  Prussia  more,  I 
fancy,  than  in  southern  Germany,  and  her  complexion 
was  that  perfect  rose-red  and  lily-white  which  often  be- 
longs to  German  girls,  and  is  doll-like  if  they  are  soft 
and  plump,  as  many  are.  This  girl's  fault  was  thinness, 
but  to  Brand,  not  a  sentimentalist,  •  nor  quickly  touched 
by  feminine  influence  (I  have  written  that,  but  on  second 
thoughts  believe  that  under  Brand's  ruggedness  there  was 
a  deep  strain  of  sentiment,  approaching  weakness),  she 
seemed  flower-like  and  spiritual.  So  he  told  me  after 
his  early  acquaintance  with  her. 

Her  first  words  to  him  were  charming. 

"We  have  suffered  very  much  from  the  war,  sir,  bui 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  '183 

we  welcome  you  to  our  house  not  as  an  enemy,  because 
the  war  finished  with  the  Armistice,  but  as  an  English- 
man who  may  come  to  be  our  friend." 

"Thanks,"  said  Brand. 

He  could  find  nothing  else  to  say  at  the  moment,  but 
spoke  that  one  word  gratefully. 

The  mother  added  something  to  her  daughter's  speech. 

"We  believed  the  English  were  our  friends  before  they 
declared  war  upon  us.  We  were  deeply  saddened  by  our 
mistake." 

"It  was  inevitable,"  said  Brand,  "after  what  had  hap- 
pened." 

The  daughter — her  name  was  Elsa — put  her  hand  on 
her  mother's  arm  with  a  quick  gesture  of  protest  against 
any  other  words  about  the  war. 

"I  will  show  Captain  Brand  to  his  rooms." 

Brand  wondered  at  her  quickness  in  knowing  his  name 
after  one  glance  at  his  billeting-paper,  and  said,  "Please 
do  not  trouble,  gnddiges  Fr'dulem,"  when  he  saw  a  look 
of  disapproval,  almost  of  alarm,  on  the  mother's  face. 

"It  will  be  better  for  Truda  to  show  the  gentleman  to 
his  rooms.  I  will  ring  for  her." 

Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  challenged  her  mother's  author- 
ity by  a  smile  of  amusement,  and  there  was  a  slight  deep- 
ening of  that  delicate  colour  in  her  face. 

"Truda  is  boiling  the  usual  cabbage  for  the  usual  Mil- 
tagessen.  I  will  go,  mother." 

She  turned  to  Brand  with  a  smile,  and  bowed  to  him. 

"I  will  act  as  your  guide  upstairs,  Captain  Brand. 
After  that,  you  may  find  your  own  way.  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult." 

Brand,  who  described  the  scene  to  me,  told  me  that  the 
girl  went  very  quickly  up  a  wide  flight  of  stairs,  so  that 
in  his  big  riding-boots  he  found  it  difficult  to  keep  pace 
with  her.  She  went  down  a  long  corridor  lined  with 


184  WOUNDED  SOULS 

etchings  on  the  walls,  and  opened  a  white  door  leading 
into  a  big  room,  furnished  as  a  library.  There  was  a 
wood  fire  burning  there,  and  at  a  glance  Brand  noticed 
one  or  two  decorations  on  the  walls — a  pair  of  foils  with 
a  fencing-mask  and  gauntlets,  some  charcoal  drawings — 
one  of  a  girl's  head,  which  was  this  girl's  when  that  gold 
hair  of  hers  hung  in  two  Gretchen  pig-tails — and  some 
antlers. 

"Here  you  can  sit  and  smoke  your  pipe,"  said  Elsa 
von  Kreuzenach,  "Also,  if  you  are  bored,  you  can  read 
those  books.  You  see  we  have  many  English  authors — 
Bernard  Shaw,  H.  G.  Wells,  G.  K.  Chesterton,  Kipling — 
heaps.  My  brother  and  I  used  to  read  all  we  could  get 
of  English  books." 

Brand  remembered  that  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  had 
read  Kipling.  He  had  quoted  'Tuck  of  Pook's  Hill"  to 
Eileen  O'Connor. 

"Now  and  then,"  he  said,  "I  may  read  a  little  German." 

"Pooh !"  said  the  girl.  "It  is  so  dull,  most  of  it.  Not 
exciting,  like  yours." 

She  opened  another  door. 

"Here  is  your  bedroom.  It  used  to  belong  to  my 
brother  Heinrich." 

"Won't  he  want  it?"  asked  Brand. 

He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  for  that  question 
when  the  girl  answered  it. 

"He  was  killed  in  France." 

A  sudden  sadness  took  possession  of  her  eyes  and 
Brand  said,  "I'm  sorry." 

"Yes.  I  was  sorry,  too,  and  wept  for  weeks.  He  was 
a  nice  boy,  so  jolly,  as  you  say.  He  would  have  been 
an  artist  if  he  had  lived.  All  those  charcoal  sketches 
are  by  him." 

She  pointed  to  the  drawing  of  a  young  man's  head 
over  the  dressing-table. 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  1&5 

"That  is  my  brother  Franz.  He  is  home  again,  Gott 
rsei  dank!  Heinrich  worshipped  him." 

Brand  looked  at  the  portrait  of  the  man  who  had  saved 
Eileen  O'Connor.  He  had  Eileen's  letter  to  him  in  his 
pocket.  It  was  a  good-looking  head,  clean-cut,  with 
frank  eyes,  rather  noble. 

"I  hope  we  shall  meet  one  day,"  said  Brand. 

Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  seemed  pleased  with  those  words. 

"He  will  like  to  meet  you — ever  so  much.  You  see, 
he  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  does  not  forget  his  love 
for  England." 

"In  spite  of  the  war?"  asked  Brand. 

The  girl  put  both  her  hands  to  her  breast. 

"The  war!"  she  said.  "Let  us  forget  the  years  when 
we  all  went  mad.  It  was  a  madness  of  hate  and  of  lies 
and  of  ignorance — on  both  sides.  The  poor  people  in 
all  countries  suffered  for  the  sins  of  the  wicked  men  who 
made  this  war  against  our  will,  and  called  out  our  evil 
passions.  The  wicked  men  in  England  were  as  bad  a£ 
those  in  Germany.  Now  it  is  for  good  people  to  build 
up  a  new  world  out  of  the  ruins  that  war  made,  the  ruin 
of  hearts." 

She  asked  a  direct  question  of  Brand,  earnestly. 

"Are  you  one  of  those  who  will  go  on  hating?" 

Brand  hesitated.  He  could  not  forget  many  things. 
He  knew,  so  he  told  me,  that  he  had  not  yet  killed  the 
old  hatred  that  had  made  him  a  sniper  in  No  Man's 
Land.  Many  times  it  surged  up  again.  He  could  not 
forgive  the  Germans  for  many  cruelties.  To  this  girl, 
then,  he  hedged  a  little. 

"The  future  must  wipe  out  the  past.  The  Peace  must 
not  be  for  vengeance." 

At  those  last  words  the  blue  eyes  of  Elsa  von 
Kreuzenach  lighted  up  gladly. 

"That  is  the  old  English  spirit!     I  have  said  to  my 


186  WOUNDED  SOULS 

mother  and  father  a  thousand  times  'England  is  generous 
at  heart.  She  loves  fair  play.  Now  that  victory  is  hers 
she  will  put  away  base  passions  and  make  a  noble  peace 
that  will  help  us  out  of  our  agony  and  ruin.  All  our 
hope  is  with  England,  and  with  the  American  President, 
who  is  the  noblest  man  on  earth.' ' 

"And  your  father  and  mother  ?"  asked  Brand.  "What 
do  they  say?" 

The  girl  smiled  rather  miserably. 

"They  belong  to  the  old  school.  Franz  and  I  are  of 
the  younger  generation  .  .  .  my  father  denounces  Eng- 
land as  the  demon  behind  all  the  war-devils,  and  Little 
Mother  finds  it  hard  to  forgive  England  for  joining  the 
war  against  us,  and  because  the  English  Army  killed 
Heinrich.  You  must  be  patient  with  them." 

She  spoke  as  though  Brand  belonged  already  to  their 
family  life  and  would  need  great  tact. 

She  moved  towards  the  door,  and  stood  framed  there 
in  its  white  woodwork,  a  pretty  figure. 

"We  have  two  maidservants  for  this  great  house,"  she 
said.  "The  war  has  made  us  poor.  Truda  and  Gret- 
chen,  they  are  called.  They  are  both  quarrelling  for 
the  pleasure  of  waiting  on  you.  They  are  both  fright- 
fully excited  to  have  an  English  officer  in  the  house!" 

"Queer!"  said  Brand,  laughing. 

"Why  queer?"  asked  Elsa  von  Kretizenach.  "I  am  a 
little  excited,  too." 

She  made  a  half-curtsey,  like  an  Early  Victorian  girl, 
and  then  closed  his  door,  and  Brand  was  sorry,  as  he  told 
me  quite  frankly,  that  he  was  left  alone. 

"The  girl's  a  pretty  piece  of  Dresden  china,"  he  said. 

When  I  chaffed  him  with  a  "Take  care,  old  lad!"  he 
only  growled  and  muttered,  "Oh,  to  hell  with  that!  I 
suppose  I  can  admire  a  pretty  thing,  even  if  it's  made  in1 
Germany?" 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  187 

Brand  told  me  that  he  met  Elsa's  father  and  brother 
on  the  third  evening  that  he  slept  in  the  Kreuzenachs' 
house.  When  he  arrived  that  evening,  at  about  five 
o'clock,  the  maidservant  Truda,  who  "did"  his  bedroom 
and  dusted  his  sitting-room  with  a  German  passion  for 
cleanliness  and  with  many  conversational  advances,  in- 
formed him  with  a  look  of  mysterious  importance  that 
the  Old  Man  wanted  to  see  him  in  the  drawing-room. 

"What  old  man?"  asked  Brand,  at  which  Truda  gig- 
gled and  said,  "the  old  Herr  Baron." 

"He  hates  the  English  like  ten  thousand  devils,"  added 
Truda,  confidentially. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  not  go,  then,"  was  Brand's  an- 
swer. 

Truda  told  him  that  he  would  have  to  go.  When  the 
Old  Herr  Baron  asked  for  a  thing  it  had  to  be  given  him. 
The  only  person  who  dared  to  disobey  him  was  Fraulein 
Elsa,  who  was  very  brave,  and  a  "hubsches  Madchen." 

Brand  braced  himself  for  the  interview,  but  felt  ex- 
tremely nervous  when  Truda  rapped  at  the  drawing-room 
door,  opened  it  and  announced,  in  German, 

"The  English  officer!" 

The  family  von  Kreuzenach  was  in  full  strength,  ob- 
viously waiting  for  his  arrival.  The  Baroness  was  in 
an  evening  gown  of  black  silk  showing  her  bare  neck 
and  arms.  She  was  sitting  stiffly  in  a  high-backed  chair 
by  the  piano,  and  was  very  handsome  in  her  cold  way. 

Her  husband,  General  von  Kreuzenach,  was  pretend- 
ing to  read  a  book  by  the  fireside.  He  was  a  tall,  bald- 
headed,  heavy- jowled  man  with  a  short  white  moustache. 
The  ribbon  of  the  Iron  Cross  was  fastened  to  the  top 
buttonhole  of  his  frock-coat. 

Elsa  was  sitting  on  a  stool  by  his  side,  and  on  a  low 
seat,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  was  a  tall  young  man  with 


188  WOUNDED  SOULS 

his  left  arm  in  a  sling,  whom  Brand  knew  at  once  to 
be  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  Eileen  O'Connor's  friend. 

When  Brand  came  into  the  room,  everybody  rose  in 
a  formal,  frightening  way,  and  Elsa's  mother  rose  very 
graciously  and,  spoke  to  her  husband. 

"This,  Baron,  is  Captain  Bra'nd,  the  English  officer 
who  is  billeted  in  our  house." 

The  Baron  bowed  stiffly  to  Brand. 

"I  hope,  sir,  that  my  servants  are  attending  to  your 
needs  in  every  way.  I  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  as  an 
old  soldier  I  wish  to  fulfil  my  duty  as  an  officer  and  a 
gentleman,  however  painful  the  circumstances  in  which 
you  find  us." 

Brand  replied  with  equal  gravity,  regretting  his  intru- 
sion, and  expressing  his  gratitude  for  the  great  courtesy 
that  had  been  shown  to  him.  Curiously,  he  told  me,  he 
had  a  strong  temptation  to  laugh.  The  enormous  for- 
mality of  the  reception  touched  some  sense  of  absurdity 
so  that  he  wanted  to  laugh  loudly  and  wildly.  Probably 
that  was  sheer  nervousness. 

"Permit  me  to  present  my  son,"  said  the  lady.  "Lieu- 
tenant Franz  von  Kreuzenach." 

The  young  man  came  forward  and  clicked  heels  in  the 
German  fashion,  but  his  way  of  shaking  hands,  and  his 
easy  "How  do  you  do?"  were  perfectly  English.  For  a 
moment  Brand  met  his  eyes,  and  found  them  frank  and 
friendly.  He  had  a  vision  of  this  man  sitting  in  Eileen 
O'Connor's  room,  gazing  at  her  with  love  in  his  eyes, 
and,  afterwards,  embarrassed,  shameful,  and  immensely 
sad  in  that  trial  scene. 

Elsa  also  shook  hands  with  him,  and  helped  to  break 
the  hard  ice  of  ceremony. 

"My  brother  is  very  glad  to  meet  you.  He  was  at  Obc- 
'ford,  you  know.  Come  and  sit  here.  You  will  take  tea, 
I  am  sure." 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  189 

They  had  prepared  tea  for  him  specially,  and  Elsa 
served  it  like  an  English  girl,  charmingly. 

Brand  was  not  an  easy  conversationalist.  His  draw- 
ing-room manners  were  gauche  always,  and  that  evening 
in  the  German  drawing-room  he  felt,  he  told  me,  "a  per- 
fect fool,"  and  could  think  of  no  small-talk.  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach  helped  him  out  by  talking  about  Oxford, 
and  Brand  felt  more  at  ease  when  he  found  that  the 
young  German  officer  knew  some  of  his  old  college 
friends,  and  described  a  "rag"  in  his  own  third  year. 
The  old  Baron  sat  stiffly,  listening  with  mask-like  gravity 
to  this  conversation.  Elsa  laughed  without  embarrass- 
ment at  her  brother's  description  of  a  "debagging"  inci- 
dent, when  the  trousers  of  a  Proctor  had  been  removed 
in  "the  High,"  and  the  Frau  von  Kreuzenach  permitted 
herself  a  wintry  smile. 

"Before  the  war,"  she  said,  "we  wished  our  children 
to  get  an  English  education.  Elsa  went  to  a  school  at 
Brighton We  were  very  fond  of  England." 

The  General  joined  in  the  conversation  for  the  first 
time. 

"It  was  a  weakness.  Without  offence,  sir,  I  think  that 
our  German  youth  would  have  been  better  employed  at 
German  universities,  where  education  is  more  seriously 
regarded,  and  where  the  national  spirit  is  fostered  and 
strengthened." 

Brand  announced  that  he  had  been  to  Heidelburg  Uni- 
versity, and  agreed  that  German  students  take  their 
studies  more  seriously  than  English. 

"We  go  to  our  universities  for  character  more  than  for 
knowledge." 

"Yes,"  said  the  elder  von  Kreuzenach.  "It  is  there 
the  English  learn  their  Imperialism  and  political  ambi- 
tions. From  their  point  of  view  they  are  right.  Eng- 
lish pride — so  arrogant — is  a  great  strength." 


190  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  toned  down  his  father's  re- 
mark. 

"My  father  uses  the  word  pride  in  its  best  sense — 
pride  of  race  and  tradition.  Personally,  what  struck  me 
most  at  Oxford  was  the  absence  of  all  deliberate  philo- 
sophical influence.  The  men  were  very  free  in  their 
opinions.  Most  of  those  in  my  set  were  anti-Imperialists 
and  advanced  Liberals,  in  a  light-hearted  way.  But  I 
fancy  most  of  them  did  not  worry  very  much  about 
political  ideas.  They  were  up  for  'a  good  time/  and 
made  the  most  of  Youth,  in  sport  and  companionship. 
They  laughed  enormously.  I  think  the  Germans  laugh 
too  little.  We  are  lacking  in  a  national  sense  of  humour, 
except  of  a  coarse  and  rustic  type." 

"I  entirely  disagree  with  you,  Franz,"  said  the  elder 
man,  sternly.  "I  find  my  own  sense  of  humour  suffi- 
ciently developed.  You  are  biassed  by  your  pro-English 
sympathy,  which  I  find  extraordinary  and  regrettable, 
after  what  has  happened." 

He  turned  to  Brand  and  said  that  as  a  soldier  he  would 
understand  that  courtesy  to  individuals  did  not  abolish 
the  sacred  duty  of  hating  a  country  which  was  essentially 
hostile  to  his  own  in  spirit  and  in  act. 

"England,"  he  added,  "has  behaved  in  an  unforgivable 
way.  For  many  years  before  the  war  she  plotted  the 
ruin  of  Germany  in  alliance  with  Russia  and  France. 
She  challenged  Germany's  trade  interests  and  national 
development  in  every  part  of  the  globe,  and  built  a  great 
fleet  for  the  sole  purpose  of  preventing  Germany's  colon- 
ial expansion.  England  has  always  been  our  enemy  since 
she  became  aware  of  our  increasing  strength,  for  she  will 
brook  no  rival.  I  do  not  blame  her,  for  that  is  the  right 
of  her  national  egotism.  But  as  a  true  German  I  have 
always  recognised  the  inevitability  of  our  conflict." 

Brand  had  no  need  to  answer  this  denunciation,  for 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  191 

Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  broke  into  her  father's  speech  im- 
patiently. 

"You  are  too  bad,  Father!  Captain  Brand  does  not 
wish  to  spend  the  evening  in  poliltical  argument.  You 
know  what  Franz  and  I  think.  We  believe  that  all  the 
evil  of  the  war  was  caused  by  silly  old  hatred  and  greedy 
rivalries.  Isn't  the  world  big  enough  for  the  free  de- 
velopment of  all  its  peoples?  If  not,  then  life  is  not 
worth  living,  and  the  human  race  must  go  on  killing  each 
other  until  the  world  is  a  wilderness." 

"I  agree,"  said  Brand,  looking  at  Elsa.  "The  peoples 
of  Europe  must  resist  all  further  incitements  to  make 
war  on  each  other.  Surely  the  American  President  has 
given  us  all  a  new  philosophy  by  his  call  for  a  League 
of  Nations,  and  his  promise  of  peace  without  vengeance, 
with  the  self-determination  of  peoples." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Franz  von  Kreuzenach.  "The 
Allies  are  bound  by  Wilson's  Fourteen  Points.  We 
agreed  to  the  Armistice  on  that  basis,  and  it  is  because 
of  the  promise  that  lies  in  those  clauses — the  charter  of 
a  New  World — that  the  German  people,  and  the  Aus- 
trians — accept  their  defeat  with  resignation,  and  look 
forward  with  hope — in  spite  of  our  present  ruin — to  a 
greater  liberty  and  to  a  more  beautiful  democracy." 

"Yes,"  said  Elsa,  "what  my  brother  says,  Captain 
Brand,  explains  the  spirit  with  which  your  English  sol- 
diers have  been  received  on  the  Rhine.  Perhaps  you 
expected  hostility,  hatred,  black  looks?  No,  the  Ger- 
man people  welcome  you,  and  your  American  comrades,' 
because  the  bitterness  of  defeat  is  softened  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  there  is  to  be  no  more  bloodshed — alas,  we  are 
drained  of  blood ! — and  that  the  Peace  will  begin  a  nobler 
age  in  history,  for  all  of  us." 

The  General  shifted  in  his  chair  so  that  it  scraped  the 


192  WOUNDED  SOULS 

polished  boards.  A  deep  wave  of  colour  swept  up  to 
his  bald  head. 

"Defeat?"  he  said.  "My  son  and  daughter  talk  of 
defeat!  .  .  .  There  was  no  defeat  The  German  Armies 
were  invincible  to  the  last.  They  never  lost  a  battle. 
They  fell  back  not  because  of  their  own  failure  but  be- 
cause the  heart  of  the  German  people  was  sapped  by  the 
weakness  of  hunger,  caused  by  the  infamous  English 
blockade,  which  starved  our  women  and  children.  Ja, 
even  our  manhood  was  weakened  by  starvation.  Still 
more,  our  civilians  were  poisoned  by  a  pestilential  heresy 
learnt  in  Russia,  a  most  damnable  pacifism,  which  de- 
stroyed their  will  to  win.  Our  glorious  Armies  were 
stabbed  in  the  back  by  anarchy  and  treachery." 

"It  is  defeat,  sir,  all  the  same,"  said  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach,  with  grim  deference,  to  his  father.  "Let  us 
face  the  tragedy  of  the  facts.  As  an  officer  of  the  rear- 
guard defence,  I  have  to  admit,  too,  that  the  German 
Armies  were  beaten  in  the  field.  Our  war  machines  were 
worn  out  and  disintegrated,  by  the  repeated  blows  that 
struck  us.  Our  man-power  was  exhausted,  and  we  could 
no  longer  resist  the  weight  of  the  Allied  Armies.  The 
Americans  had  immense  reserves  of  men  to  throw  in 
against  us.  We  could  only  save  ourselves  by  retreat.  Field 
Marshal  von  Hindenburg,  himself,  has  admitted  that." 

The  General's  face  was  no  longer  flushed  with  angry 
colour.  He  was  very  white,  with  a  kind  of  dead  look,, 
except  for  the  "smouldering  fire  of  his  eyes.  He  spoke 
in  a  low,  choking  voice,  in  German. 

"If  I  had  known  that  a  son  of  mine,  bearing  the  name 
of  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  would  have  admitted  the  de- 
feat of  the  German  Army,  before  an  officer  of  an  enemy 
power,  I  would  have  strangled  him  at  birth." 

He  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  made  one  or  two 
efforts  to  rise,  but  could  not  do  so. 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  193 

"Anna!"  he  commanded,  harshly,  to  his  wife,  "give 
me  your  arm.  This  officer  will  excuse  me,  I  trust.  I 
feel  unwell." 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  went  quickly  over  to  his  father, 
before  his  mother  could  rise. 

"Father,  I  deeply  regret  having  pained  you.  The 
truth  is  tragic  enough " 

The  old  man  answered  him  ferociously. 

"You  have  not  spoken  truth,  but  lies.  You  are  a 
disgrace  to  the  rank  of  a  German  officer,  and  to  my  name. 
You  have  been  infected  by  the  poison  of  socialism  and 
anarchy.  Anna — your  arm!" 

Elsa's  mother  stooped  over  her  husband,  and  lifted  his 
hand  to  her  lips. 

"Mein  lieber  Mann,"  she  said,  very  softly. 

The  old  man  rose  stiffly,  leaning  on  his  wife's  arm,  and 
bowed  to  Brand. 

"I  beg  you  to  excuse  me,  sir.  As  a  German  soldier  I 
do  not  admit  the  words  'defeat'  or  'retreat/  even  when 
spoken  within  my  own  household.  The  ever-glorious 
German  Army  has  never  been  defeated,  and  has  never 
retreated — except  according  to  plan.  I  wish  you  good- 
night." 

Brand  was  standing,  and  bowed  to  the  General  in 
silence. 

It  was  a  silence  which  lasted  after  the  husband  and 
wife  had  left  the  room.  The  girl  Elsa  was  mopping  her 
eyes.  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  stood,  very  pale,  by  the 
empty  chair  in  which  his  father  had  sat.  He  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  like 
that  before  my  father.  He  belongs  to  the  old  school." 

Brand  told  me  that  he  felt  abominably  uncomfortable, 


194-  WOUNDED  SOULS 

and  wished  with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  not  been  billeted 
in  this  German  house. 

Elsa  rose  quickly  and  put  her  hand  on  her  brother's 
arm. 

"I  am  glad  you  spoke  as  you  did,  Franz.  It  is  hate- 
ful to  hurt  our  dear  father,  but  it  is  necessary  to  tell  the 
truth  now,  or  we  cannot  save  ourselves,  and  there  will 
be  no  new  era  in  the  world.  It  is  the  younger  generation- 
that  must  re-shape  the  world,  and  that  cannot  be  done 
if  we  yield  to  old  falsehoods,  and  go  the  way  of  old 
traditions." 

Franz  raised  his  sister's  hand  to  his  lips,  and  Brand 
told  me  that  his  heart  softened  at  the  sight  of  that  caress, 
as  it  had  when  Elsa's  mother  kissed  the  hand  of  her  old 
husband.  It  seemed  to  him  symbolical  of  the  two  gen- 
erations, standing  together,  the  old  against  the  young,  the 
young  against  the  old. 

"In  England,  also,"  he  said,  "we  have  those  who  stand 
by  hate,  and  those  who  would  break  with  the  old  tradi- 
tions and  forget,  as  soon  as  possible,  old  enmities." 

"It  is  the  new  conflict,"  said  Franz  von  Kreuzenach, 
solemnly.  "It  will  divide  the  world,  and  many  houses, 
as  Christ's  gospel  divided  father  from  son,  and  blood- 
brothers.  It  is  the  new  agony." 

"The  new  Hope,"  said  Elsa,  passionately. 

Brand  made  an  early  excuse  to  retire  to  his  room,  and 
Franz  von  Kreuzenach  conducted  him  upstairs,  and  car- 
ried his  candlestick. 

"Thanks,"  said  Brand  in  the  doorway  of  his  room. 
Then  suddenly  he  remembered  Eileen  O'Connor's  letter,, 
and  put  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket  for  his  case. 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you,"  he  said. 

"So?"     The  young  German  was  surprised. 
.     "From  a  lady  in  Lille,"  said  Brand.     "Miss  Eileen 
;  O'Connor." 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  195 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  started  violently,  and  for  a 
moment  or  two  he  was  incapable  of  speech.  When  he 
took  the  letter  from  Brand  his  hand  trembled. 

"You  know  her?"  he  said,  at  last. 

"I  knew  her  in  old  days,  and  met  her  in  Lille,"  an- 
swered Brand.  "She  told  me  of  your  kindness  to  her. 
I  promised  to  thank  you  when  I  met  you.  I  do  so  now." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Franz  von  Kreuzenach 
grasped  it  in  a  hard  grip. 

"She  is  well?"  he  asked,  with  deep  emotion. 

"Well  and  happy,"  said  Brand. 

"That  is  good." 

The  young  German  was  immensely  embarrassed,  ab- 
surdly self-conscious  and  shy. 

"In  Lille,"  he  said,  "I  had  the  honour  of  her  friend- 
ship." 

"She  told  me,"  answered  Brand.  "I  saw  some  of  your 
songs  in  her  room." 

"Yes,  I  sang  to  her." 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  laughed,  awkwardly.  Then 
suddenly  a  look  of  something  like  fear — certainly  alarm 
— changed  his  expression. 

"I  must  beg  of  you  to  keep  secret  any  knowledge  of 
my — my  friendship — with  that  lady.  She  acted — rashly. 
If  it  were  known,  even  by  my  father,  that  I  did — what  I 
did — my  honour,  perhaps  even  my  life,  would  be  unsafe. 
You  understand,  I  am  sure." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Brand. 

"As  a  German  officer,"  said  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  "I 
took  great  risk." 

He  emphasised  his  words. 

"As  a  German  officer  I  took  liberties  with  my  duty — 
because  of  a  higher  law." 

"A  higher  law  than  discipline,"  said  Brand.  "Per- 
haps a  nobler  duty  than  the  code  of  a  German  officer." 


196  WOUNDED  SOULS 

He  spoke  with  a  touch  of  irony,  but  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach  was  unconscious  of  that. 

"Our  duty  to  God,"  he  said  gravely.  "Human  pity. 
Love." 

An  expression  of  immense  sentiment  filled  his  eyes. 
An  Englishman  would  have  masked  it  more  guardedly. 

"Good  night,"  said  Brand,  "and  thanks  again." 

The  young  German  clicked  his  heels  and  bowed. 

"Good  night,  sir." 

Brand  went  to  bed,  in  a  leisurely  way,  and  before  sleep- 
ing heard  a  violin  being  played  in  the  room  above  his 
own.  By  the  tune  he  remembered  the  words  of  an  old 
song,  as  Eileen  O'Connor  had  sung  it  in  Lille,  and  as  he 
had  learnt  it  in  his  own  home  before  the  war. 

There's  one  that  is  pure  as  an  angel, 

And  fair  as  the  flowers  of  May, 
They  call  her  the  gentle  maiden 

Wherever  she  takes  her  way. 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  was  having  an  orgy  of  senti- 
ment, and  Brand  somehow  envied  him. 


V 

OUR  entry  into  Cologne  and  life  among  the  people 
whom  we  had  been  fighting  for  four  years,  and 
more,  was  an  amazing  psychological  experience,  and  not 
one  of  us  there  on  the  Rhine  could  escape  its  subtle 
influence  upon  our  opinions  and  sub-conscious  state  of 
mind.  Some  of  our  officers,  I  am  sure,  were  utterly 
unaware  of  the  change  being  wrought  in  them  by  daily 
association  with  German  civilians.  They  did  not  realise 
how,  day  by  day,  their  old  beliefs  on  the  subject  of  "the 
Hun"  were  being  broken  down  by  contact  with  people 
who  behaved  with  dignity,  for  the  most  part,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  ordinary  rules  of  human  nature.  Charles 
Fortune,  our  humorist,  delighted  to  observe  these  things, 
and  his  irony  found  ready  targets  in  Cologne,  both  among 
British  officers  and  German  civilians,  neither  of  whom  he 
spared.  I  remember  that  I  was  walking  one  day  down 
Hohestrasse  with  young  Harding,  after  the  proclamation 
had  been  issued  (and  enforced  with  numerous  arrests  and 
fines  by  the  A.P.M.  and  the  military  police)  that  all 
German  civilians  were  to  salute  British  officers  by  doffing 
their  hats  in  the  streets.  The  absurdity  of  it  was  so 
great  that  in  a  crowded  street  like  the  Hohestrasse  the 
civilian  people  would  have  had  to  remain  bareheaded, 
owing  to  the  constant  passing  of  our  officers. 

Fortune  saluted  Harding  and  myself  not  only  with 
one  hand  but  with  two.  He  wore  his  "heroic"  face, 
wonderfully  noble  and  mystical. 

"How  great  and  glorious  is  the  British  Army !"  he  said. 

197 


198  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"How  immense  are  the  power  and  majesty  of  the  tem- 
porary lieutenant!  For  four  years  and  a  half  we  have 
fought  to  crush  militarism.  Nine  hundred  thousand  men 
of  ours  have  died  explosive  deaths  in  order  to  abolish 
the  philosophy  of  Zabernism — you  remember ! — the  claim 
of  the  military  caste  to  the  servility  of  civilian  salutes. 
Two  million  men  of  ours  are  blind,  crippled,  shell- 
shocked,  as  martyrs  for  democracy  made  free  of  Junker- 
dom  by  the  crushing  of  the  Hun.  Now,  by  a  slight  error 
in  logic  (the  beautiful  inconsistency  of  our  English  char- 
acter!) we  arrest,  fine,  or  imprison  any  German  man  or 
child  who  does  not  bare  his  head  before  a  little  English 
subaltern  from  Peckham  Rye  or  Tooting  in  a  Gor'blimy 
cap!  How  great  and  good  we  are!  How  free  from 
hypocrisy !  How  splendid  our  victory  for  the  little  peo- 
ples of  the  earth!" 

Young  Harding,  who  had  been  returning  salutes  sol- 
emnly and  mechanically  to  great  numbers  of  Germans, 
flushed  a  little. 

"I  suppose  it's  necessary  to  enforce  respect.  All  the 
same,  it's  a  horrid  bore." 

Fortune  wagged  his  hand  behind  his  ear  to  an  elderly 
German  who  took  off  his  bowler  hat.  The  man  stared 
at  him  in  a  frightened  way,  as  though  the  English  officer 
had  suddenly  gone  mad  and  might  bite  him. 

"Strange!"  said  Fortune.  "Not  yet  have  they  been 
taught  the  beauty  of  the  Guards'  salute.  That  man 
ought  to  be  put  into  a  dark  cell,  with  bread  and  water, 
and  torture  from  9  a.m.  till  mid-day,  on  Wednesdays  and 
Fridays." 

Fortune  was  vastly  entertained  by  the  sight  of  British 
soldiers  walking  about  with  German  families  in  whose 
houses  they  were  billeted.  Some  of  them  were  arm-in- 
arm with  German  girls,  a  sergeant-major  was  carrying  a 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  199 

small  flaxen-haired  boy  on  whose  sailor's  cap  was  the 
word  "Vaterland." 

"Disgraceful!"  said  Fortune,  looking  sternly  at  Hard- 
ing. "In  spite  of  all  our  atrocity  tales,  our  propaganda 
of  righteous  hate,  our  training  of  the  young  idea  that 
a  Hun  must  be  killed  at  sight — 'the  only  good  German 
is  a  dead  German,'  as  you  remember,  Harding — these 
soldiers  of  ours  are  fraternising  with  the  enemy  and 
flirting  with  the  enemy's  fair-haired  daughters,  and 
carrying  infant  Huns  shoulder-high.  Look  at  that  ser- 
geant-major forgetting  all  my  propaganda.  Surely  he 
ought  to  cut  the  throat  of  that  baby  Hindenburg?  My 
heart  aches  for  Blear-eyed  Bill,  the  Butcher  of  the  Boche. 
All  his  work  undone.  All  his  fury  fizzled.  Sad !  sad !" 

Harding  looked  profoundly  uncomfortable  at  this  sar- 
casm. He  was  billeted  with  a  German  family  who 
treated  him  as  an  honoured  friend.  The  mother,  a  dear 
old  soul,  as  he  reluctantly  admitted,  brought  him  an  early 
cup  of  tea  in  the  morning,  with  his  shaving-water.  Three 
times  he  had  refused  it,  remembering  his  oath  never  to 
accept  a  favour  from  male  or  female  Hun.  On  the 
fourth  time  his  will-power  weakened  under  the  old  lady's 
anxious  solicitations  and  his  desire  for  the  luxury  of 
tea  before  dressing.  He  said  Danke  schon,  and  after- 
wards reproached  himself  bitterly  for  his  feeble  resist- 
ance. He  was  alarmed  at  his  own  change  of  heart  to- 
wards these  people.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  draw 
back  solemnly  or  with  pompous  and  aloof  dignity  when 
the  old  lady's  grandchild,  a  little  girl  of  six,  waylaid  him 
in  the  hall,  dropped  a  curtsey  in  the  pretty  German  style, 
and  then  ran  forward  to  kiss  his  hand  and  say,  "Guten 
Tag,  Herr  Officer!" 

He  bought  a  box  of  chocolate  for  her  in  the  Hohe- 
strasse  and  then  walked  with  it  irresolutely,  tempted  to 
throw  it  into  the  Rhine,  or  to  give  it  to  a  passing  Tommy. 


200  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Half-an-hour  later  he  presented  it  to  little  Elizabeth,  who 
received  it  with  a  cry  of  delight,  and,  jumping  on  to  his 
knee,  kissed  him  effusively  on  both  cheeks.  Young 
Harding  adored  children,  but  felt  as  guilty  at  these  Ger- 
man kisses  as  though  he  had  betrayed  his  country  and 
his  faith. 

One  thing  which  acted  in  favour  of  the  Germans  was 
the  lack  of  manners  displayed  by  some  young  English 
officers  in  the  hotels,  restaurants,  and  shops.  In  all 
armies  there  are  cads,  and  ours  was  not  without  them, 
though  they  were  rare.  The  conditions  of  our  military 
occupation  with  absolute  authority  over  the  civilian  peo- 
ple provided  a  unique  opportunity  for  the  caddish  in- 
stincts of  "half-baked"  youth.  They  came  swaggering 
into  Cologne  determined  to  "put  it  across  the  Hun"  and 
"to  stand  no  nonsense."  So  they  bullied  frightened 
waiters,  rapped  their  sticks  on  shop-counters,  insulted 
German  shop-girls,  and  talked  loudly  about  "Hunnishl 
behaviour"  in  restaurants  where  many  Germans  could 
hear  and  understand. 

Harding,  Fortune  and  I  were  in  the  Domhof  Hotel 
when  one  such  scene  occurred.  A  group  of  noisy  subal- 
terns were  disputing  the  cost  of  their  meal  and  refusing 
to  pay  for  the  wine. 

"You  stole  all  the  wine  in  Lille,"  shouted  one  lieuten- 
ant of  ours.  "I'm  damned  if  I'll  pay  for  wine  in 
Cologne." 

"I  stole  no  wine  in  Lille,  sir,"  said  the  waiter  politely. 
"I  was  never  there." 

"Don't  you  insult  English  officers,"  said  one  of  the 
other  subalterns.  "We  are  here  to  tread  on  your  necks." 

Fortune  looked  at  me  and  raised  his  eye-brows. 

"It  isn't  a  good  imitation,"  he  said.  "If  they  want 
to  play  the  game  of  frightfulness,  they  really  ought  to 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  201 

do  better  than  that.  They  don't  even  make  the  right 
kind  of  face." 

Harding  spoke  bitterly. 

"Cads !  .  .  .  Cads  I  ...  Somebody  ought  to  put  them 
under  arrest." 

"It  doesn't  really  impress  the  Germans,"  said  Fortune. 
"They  know  it's  only  make-believe.  You  see,  the  foolish 
boys  are  paying  their  bill!  Now,  if  I,  or  Blear-eyed  Bill, 
were  to  do  the  Junker  stunt,  we  should  at  least  look  the 
real  ogres." 

He  frowned  horribly,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  and 
growled  and  grumbled  with  an  air  of  senile  ferocity — to 
the  great  delight  of  a  young  German  waiter  watching 
him  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  already  aware  that 
Fortune  was  a  humourist. 

The  few  cads  among  us  caused  a  reaction  in  the  minds 
of  all  men  of  good  manners,  so  that  they  took  the  part  of 
the  Germans.  Even  various  regulations  and  restrictions 
ordered  by  the  military  governor  during  the  first  few 
months  of  our  occupation  were  resented  more  by  British 
officers  and  men  than  by  the  Germans  themselves.  The 
opera  was  closed,  and  British  officers  said,  "What  prepos- 
terous nonsense !  How  are  the  poor  devils  going  to  earn 
their  living,  and  how  are  we  going  to  amuse  ourselves?" 
The  wine-concerts  and  restaurants  were  ordered  to  shut 
down  at  ten  o'clock,  and  again  the  British  Army  of  Oc- 
cupation "groused"  exceedingly  and  said,  "We  thought 
this  war  had  been  fought  for  liberty.  Why  all  this  petty 
tyranny?"  Presently  these  places  were  allowed  to  stay 
open  till  eleven,  and  all  the  way  down  the  Hohestrasse, 
as  eleven  o'clock  struck,  one  saw  groups  of  British  offi- 
cers and  men,  and  French  and  American  officers,  pouring 
out  of  a  Wein-stube,  a  Kunstler  Concert  or  a  Bler-halle, 
with  farewell  greetings  or  promises  of  further  rendez- 


SOS  WOUNDED  SOULS 

vous  with  laughing  German  girls,  who  seemed  to  learn 
English  by  magic. 

"Disgraceful!"  said  young  Harding,  who  .was  a  mar- 
ried man  with  a  pretty  wife  in  England  for  whom  he 
yearned  with  a  home-sickness  which  he  revealed  to  me 
boyishly  when  we  became  closer  friends  in  this  German 
city. 

"Not  disgraceful,"  said  the  little  American  doctor,  who 
had  joined  us  in  Cologne,  "but  only  the  fulfilment  of 
nature's  law,  which  makes  man  desire  woman.  Allah  is 
great!  .  .  .  But  juxtaposition  is  greater." 

Dr.  Small  was  friends  with  all  of  us,  and  there  was 
not  one  among  our  crowd  who  had  not  an  affection  and 
admiration  for  this  little  man  whose  honesty  was  trans- 
parent, and  whose  vital  nervous  energy  was  like  a  fresh 
wind  to  any  company  in  which  he  found  himself.  It 
was  Wickham  Brand,  however,  who  had  captured  the 
doctor's  heart,  most  of  all,  and  I  think  I  was  his  "second 
best."  Anyhow,  it  was  to  me  that  he  revealed  his  opin- 
ion of  Brand,  and  some  of  his  most  intimate  thoughts. 

"Wickham  has  the  quality  of  greatness,"  he  said-  "I 
don't  mean  to  say  he's  great  now.  Not  at  all.  I  think 
he's  fumbling  and  groping,  not  sure  of  himself,  afraid 
of  his  best  instincts,  thinking  his  worst  may  be  right. 
But  one  day  he  will  straighten  all  that  out  and  have  a 
call  as  loud  as  a  trumpet.  What  I  like  is  his  moodiness 
and  bad-temper." 

"Queer  taste,  doctor !"  I  remarked.  "When  old  Brand 
is  in  the  sulks  there's  nothing  doing  with  him.  He's  like 
a  bear  with  a  sore  ear." 

"Sure!"  said  Dr.  Small.  "That's  exactly  it.  He  is 
biting  his  own  sore  ear.  I  guess  with  him,  though,  it's 
a  sore  heart.  He  keeps  moping  and  fretting,  and  won't 
let  his  wounds  heal.  That's  what  makes  him  different, 
from  most  others,  especially  you  English.  You  go 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  203 

through  frightful  experiences  and  then  forget  them  and 
say,  'Funny  old  world,  young  fellah !  Come  and  have  a 
drink.'  You  see  civilisation  rocking  like  a  boat  in  a 
storm,  but  you  say,  in  your  English  way,  'Why  worry?' 
.  .  .  Wickham  worries.  He  wants  to  put  things  right, 
and  make  the  world  safer  for  the  next  crowd.  He  thinks 
of  the  boys  who  will  have  to  fight  in  the  next  war — 
wants  to  save  them  from  his  agonies." 

"Yes,  he's  frightfully  sensitive  underneath  his  mask  of 
ruggedness,"  I  said. 

"And  romantic,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Romantic?" 

"Why,  yes.  That  girl,  Eileen  O'Connor,  churned  up 
his  heart  all  right.  Didn't  you  see  the  worship  in  his 
eyes?  It  made  me  feel  good." 

I  laughed  at  the  little  doctor,  and  accused  him  of 
romanticism. 

"Anyhow,"  I  said,  more  seriously,  "Eileen  O'Connor  is 
not  without  romance  herself,  and  I  don't  know  what 
she  wrote  in  that  letter  to  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  but  I 
suspect  she  re-opened  an  episode  which  had  best  be 
closed.  ...  As  for  Brand,  I  think  he's  asking  for  trou- 
ble of  the  same  kind.  If  he  sees  much  of  that  girl  Elsa 
I  won't  answer  for  him.  She's  amazingly  pretty,  and 
full  of  charm,  from  what  Brand  tells  me." 

"I  guess  he'll  be  a  darned  fool  if  he  fixes  up  with  that 
girl,"  growled  the  doctor. 

"You're  inconsistent,"  I  said.  "Are  you  shocked  that 
Wickham  Brand  should  fall  in  love  with  a  German  girl  ?" 

"Not  at  all,  sonny,"  said  Dr.  Small.  "As  a  biologist, 
I  know  you  can't  interfere  with  natural  selection,  and  a 
pretty  girl  is  an  alluring  creature,  whether  she  speaks 
German  or  Icelandic.  But  this  girl,  Elsa  von  Kreuze- 
nach, is  not  up  to  a  high  standard  of  eugenics." 

I  was  amused  by  the  doctor's  scientific  disapproval. 


204  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"What's  wrong  with  her?"  I  asked.  "And  when  did 
you  meet  her?" 

"Sonny,"  said  the  doctor,  "what  do  you  think  I've  been 
doing  all  these  weeks  in  Cologne?  Drinking  coffee  at 
the  Domhof  Hotel  with  the  A.P.M.  and  his  soldier- 
policemen?  Watching  the  dancing-girls  every  evening 
in  wine-rooms  like  this?" 

We  sat  in  a  Wein-stube  as  we  talked,  for  the  sake  of 
light  and  a  little  music.  It  was  typical  of  a  score  of 
others  in  Cologne,  with  settees  of  oak  divided  from  each 
other  in  "cosy  corners"  hung  with  draperies  of  green  and 
red  silk ;  and  little  tables  to  which  waiters  brought  relays 
of  Rhine  wines  in  tall  thin  bottles  for  the  thirstiness  of 
German  civilians  and  British  officers.  At  one  end  of  the 
room  was  a  small  stage,  and  an  orchestra  composed  of 
a  pianist  who  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  a  mild  form 
of  shell-shock  (judging  from  a  convulsive  twitch),  a 
young  German-Jew  who  played  the  riddle  squeakily,  and 
a  thin,  sad-faced  girl  behind  a  'cello.  Every  now  and 
then  a  bald-headed  man  in  evening  clothes  mounted  the 
stage  and  begged  the  attention  of  the  company  for  a 
dance  by  the  well-known  artist  Fraulein  So-and-So. 
From  behind  a  curtain  near  the  wine-bar  came  a  dancing- 
girl,  in  the  usual  ballet  dress  and  the  usual  fixed  and 
senseless  smile,  who  proceeded  to  perform  Pavloa  effects 
on  a  stage  two  yards  square,  while  the  young  Jew  fid- 
dler flattened  himself  against  the  side  curtain,  with  a 
restricted  use  of  his  bow,  and  the  pianist  with  the  shell- 
shock  lurched  sideways  as  he  played,  to  avoid  her  floppy 
skirts,  and  the  girl  behind  the  'cello  drew  deep  chords 
with  a  look  of  misery. 

"These  are  pretty  dull  spots,"  I  said  to  the  little  doc- 
tor, "but  where  have  you  been  spending  your  time  ?  And 
when  did  you  meet  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  ?" 

Dr.  Small  told  me  that  he  had  been  seeking  knowledge 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  205 

in  the  only  place  where  he  could  study  social  health  and 
social  disease — hospitals,  work-shops,  babies'  creches, 
slum  tenements.  He  was  scornful  of  English  officers 
and  correspondents  who  summed  up  the  social  state  of 
Germany  after  a  stroll  down  the  Hohestrasse,  a  gorge  of 
ersatz  pastry  (filth!"  he  said)  in  the  tea-shops,  and  a 
dinner  of  four  courses  in  a  big  hotel  on  smuggled  food 
at  fantastic  prices. 

"You  might  as  well  judge  Germany  by  the  guzzling 
swine  in  this  place  as  England  by  a  party  of  profiteers  at 
Brighton.  The  poor  middle-classes  and  the  labourers 
stay  indoors  after  their  day's  job,  and  do  not  exhibit 
their  misery  in  the  public  ways." 

"Real  misery?"  I  asked.     "Hunger?" 

Dr.  Small  glowered  at  me  through  his  goggles. 

"Come  and  see.  Come  and  see  the  mothers  who  have 
no  milk  for  their  babes,  and  the  babes  who  are  bulbous- 
headed,  with  rickets.  Come  and  see  the  tenement  lodg- 
ings where  working-families  sit  round  cabbage-soup,  as 
their  chief  meal,  with  bread  that  ties  their  entrails  into 
knots  but  gives  'em  a  sense  of  fulness,  not  enjoyed  by 
those  who  have  no  bread.  Man,  it's  awful.  It  tears  at 
one's  heart.  0ut  you  needn't  go  into  the  slums  to  find 
hunger — four  years  of  under-nourishment  which  has 
weakened  growing  girls  so  that  they  swoon  at  their  work, 
or  fall  asleep  through  weakness  in  the  tram-cars.  In 
many  of  the  big  houses  where  life  looks  so  comfortable, 
from  which  women  come  out  in  furs,  looking  so  rich, 
these  German  people  have  not  enough  to  eat,  and  what 
they  eat  is  manufactured  in  the  chemist's  shop  and  the 
ersatz  factories.  I  found  that  out  from  that  girl,  Elsa 
von  Kreuzenach." 

"How?"  I  asked. 

"She  is  a  nurse  in  a  babies'  creche,  poor  child.  Showed 
me  round  with  a  mother-look  in  her  eyes,  while  all  the 


206  WOUNDED  SOULS 

scrofulous  kiddies  cried,  'Guten  Tag!  Guten  Tag!* 
like  the  quacking  of  ducks.  'After  to-morrow,'  she  said, 
'there  will  be  no  more  milk  for  them.  What  can  we  do 
for  them  then,  doctor?  They  will  wither  and  die.' 
Those  were  her  words,  and  I  saw  her  sadness.  I  saw 
something  else,  presently.  I  saw  her  sway  a  little,  and 
she  fell  like  that  girl  Marthe  on  the  door-step  at  Lille. 
'For  the  love  of  Mike !'  I  said,  and  when  she  pulled  round 
bullied  her. 

"  'What  did  you  have  for  breakfast?'  I  asked. 

"  'Ersatz  coffee,'  she  said,  laughing,  'and  a  bit  of  bread. 
A  good  Fruhstuck,  doctor.' 

"  'Good  be  hanged !'  I  said.     'What  did  you  have  for 
lunch?' 

"  'Cabbage-soup,  and  ein  kleines  Brodchen,'  she  says. 
'After  four  years  one  gets  used  to  it.' 

"'What  will  you  have  for  dinner?'  said  I,  not  liking 
the  look  of  things. 

"She  laughed,  as  though  she  saw  a  funny  joke. 
t    "  'Cabbage  soup  and  turnips,'  she  said,  'and  a  regular 
'feast.' 

"  'I  thought  your  father  was  a  Baron,'  I  remarked  in 
my  sarcastic  way. 

"  'That's  true,'  she  says,  'and  an  honest  man  he  is,  and 
therefore  poor.  It  is  only  the  profiteers  who  feed  well 
in  Germany.  All  through  the  war  they  waxed  fat  on 
the  flesh-and-blood  of  the  men  who  fought  and  died. 
Now  they  steal  the  food  of  the  poor  by  bribing  the 
peasants  to  sell  their  produce  at  any  price.  Schleichand- 
lung  is  the  word  she  used.  That  means  'smuggling.'  It 
also  means  hell's  torture,  I  hope,  for  those  who  do 
it.  ...  So  there  you  are.  If  Wickham  Brand  marries 
Elsa  von  Kreuzenach,  he  marries  a  girl  whose  health  has 
been  undermined  by  four  years'  semi-starvation.  What 
.do  you  think  their  children  will  be?  Ricketty,  tuber- 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES 

culous,  undersized,  weak-framed.  Wickham  Brand  de- 
serves better  luck  than  that,  sonny." 

I  roared  with  laughter  at  the  little  doctor,  and  told  him 
he  was  looking  too  far  ahead,  as  far  as  Brand  and  the 
German  girl  were  concerned.  This  made  him  angry,  in 
his  humourous  way,  and  he  told  me  that  those  who  don't 
look  ahead  fail  to  see  the  trouble  under  their  nose  until 
they  fall  over  it. 

We  left  the  Weinstube  through  a  fog  of  smoke.  An- 
other dancing  girl  was  on  the  tiny  stage,  waving  her  arms 
and  legs.  An  English  officer,  slightly  fuddled,  was  writ- 
ing a  cheque  for  his  bill  and  persuading  the  German  man- 
ager to  accept  it.  Two  young  French  officers  were  star- 
ing at  the  dancing-girl  with  hostile  eyes.  Five  young 
Germans  were  noisy  round  six  tall  bottles  of  Liebfrau- 
milch.  The  doctor  and  I  walked  down  to  the  bank  of 
the  Rhine  below  the  Hohenzollern  bridge.  Our  sentries 
were  there,  guarding  heavy  guns  which  thrust  their 
snouts  up  from  tarpaulin  covers. 

Two  German  women  passed,  with  dragging  footsteps, 
and  one  said  wearily,  "Ach,  lieber  Gott!" 

The  doctor  was  silent  for  some  time  after  his  long 
monologue.  He  stared  across  the  Rhine,  on  whose  black 
surface  lights  glimmered  with  a  milky  radiance.  Pres- 
ently he  spoke  again,  and  I  remember  his  words,  which 
were,  in  a  way,  prophetic. 

"These  German  people  are  broken.  They  had  to  be 
broken.  They  are  punished.  They  had  to  be  punished.1 
Because  they  obeyed  the  call  of  their  leaders,  which  was 
to  evil,  their  power  has  been  overthrown  and  their  race 
made  weak.  You  and  I,  an  Englishman,  an  American, 
stand  here,  by  right  of  victory,  overlooking  this  river 
which  has  flowed  through  two  thousand  years  of  German 
history.  It  has  seen  the  building-up  of  the  German  peo- 
ple, their  industry,  their  genius,  their  racial  conscious- 


208  WOUNDED  SOULS 

ness.  It  has  been  in  the  rhythm  of  their  poetry  and  has 
made  the  melody  of  their  songs.  On  its  banks  lived  the 
little  people  of  German  fairy-tales,  and  the  heroes  of  their 
legends.  Now  there  are  English  guns  ready  to  fire 
across  the  water,  and  English,  French  and  American  sol- 
diers pacing  this  road  along  the  Rhine,  as  victors  and 
guards  of  victory.  What  hurt  to  the  pride  of  this  peo« 
pie!  What  a  downfall!  We  must  be  glad  of  that  be- 
cause the  German  challenge  to  the  world  was  not  to  be 
endured  by  free  peoples.  That  is  true,  and  nothing  can 
ever  alter  its  truth  or  make  it  seem  false.  I  stand  firm 
by  that  faith.  But  I  see  also,  what  before  I  did  not  see, 
that  many  of  these  Germans  were  but  slaves  of  a  system 
which  they  could  not  change,  and  spellbound  by  old  tra- 
ditions, old  watch-words,  belonging  to  the  soul  of  their 
race,  so  that  when  they  were  spoken  they  had  to  offer 
their  lives  in  sacrifice.  High  power  above  them  arranged 
their  destiny,  and  the  manner  and  measure  of  their  sacri- 
fice, and  they  had  no  voice,  or  strength,  or  knowledge,  to 
protest — these  German  peasants,  these  boys  who  fought, 
these  women  and  children  who  suffered  and  starved. 
Now  it  is  they,  the  ignorant  and  the  innocent,  who  must 
go  on  suffering,  paying  in  peace  for  what  their  rulers  dad 
in  war.  Men  will  say  that  is  the  justice  of  God.  I  can 
see  no  loving  God's  work  in  the  starvation  of  babes,  nor 
in  the  weakening  of  women  so  that  mothers  have  no 
milk.  I  see  only  the  cruelty  of  men.  It  is  certain  now 
that,  having  won  the  war,  we  must  be  merciful  in  peace. 
We  must  relieve  the  Blockade,  which  is  still  starving 
these  people.  We  must  not  go  out  for  vengeance  but 
rather  to  rescue.  For  this  war  has  involved  the  civilian 
populations  of  Europe  and  is  not  limited  to  armies.  A 
treaty  of  peace  will  be  with  Famine  and  Plague  rather 
than  with  defeated  generals  and  humiliated  diplomats. 
If  we  make  a  military  peace,  without  regard  to  the 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  209 

agonies  of  peoples,  there  will  be  a  tragic  price  to  pay 
by  victors  as  well  as  by  vanquished.  For  the  victors  are 
weak  too.  Their  strength  was  nearly  spent.  They — 
except  my  people — were  panting  to  the  last  gasp  when 
their  enemy  fell  at  last.  They  need  a  peace  of  reconcilia- 
tion for  their  own  sakes,  because  no  new  frontiers  may 
save  them  from  sharing  the  ruin  of  those  they  destroy, 
nor  the  disease  of  those  they  starve.  America  alone 
comes  out  of  the  war  strong  and  rich.  For  that  reason 
we  have  the  power  to  shape  the  destiny  of  the  human 
race,  and  to  heal,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  wounds  of  the 
world.  It  is  our  chance  in  history.  The  most  supreme 
chance  that  any  race  has  had  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world.  All  nations  are  looking  to  President  Wilson  to 
help  them  out  of  the  abyss  and  to  make  a  peace  which 
shall  lead  the  people  out  of  the  dark  jungle  of  Europe. 
My  God!  ...  If  Wilson  will  be  noble  and  wise  and 
strong,  he  may  alter  the  face  of  the  world,  and  win  such 
victory  as  no  mortal  leader  ever  gained.  If  not — if  not 
— there  will  be  anguish  unspeakable,  and  a  worse  dark' 
ness,  and  a  welter  of  anarchy  out  of  whose  madness  new 
wars  will  be  bred,  until  civilisation  drops  back  to  sav- 
agery, or  disappears.  ...  7  am  afraid!" 

He  spoke  those  last  words  with  a  terrible  thrill  in 
his  rather  high,  harsh  voice,  and  I,  too,  standing  there 
in  the  darkness,  by  the  Rhine,  had  a  sense  of  mighty 
powers  at  work  with  the  destiny  of  many  peoples,  and 
of  risks  and  chances  and  hatreds  and  stupidities  thwart- 
ing the  purpose  of  noble  minds  and  humble  hearts  after 
this  four  years'  massacre.  .  .  .  And  I  was  afraid. 


VI 

SYMPTOMS  of  restless  impatience  which  had  ap- 
peared almost  as  soon  as  the  signing  of  the  Armistice 
began  to  grow  with  intensity  among  all  soldiers  who  had 
been  long  in  the  zone  of  war.  Their  patience,  so  endur- 
ing through  the  bad  years,  broke  at  last.  They  wanted 
to  go  home,  desperately.  They  wanted  to  get  back  to 
civil  life,  in  civil  clothes.  With  the  Armistice  all  mean- 
ing had  gone  out  of  their  khaki  uniform,  out  of  military 
discipline,  out  of  distinctions  of  rank,  and  out  of  the 
whole  system  of  their  soldiers'  life.  They  had  done  the 
dirty  job,  they  had  faced  all  its  risks,  and  they  had  gained 
what  glory  there  might  be  in  human  courage.  Now  they 
desired  to  get  back  to  their  own  people,  and  their  own 
places,  and  the  old  ways  of  life  and  liberty. 

They  remembered  the  terms  of  their  service — these 
amateurs  who  had  answered  the  call  in  early  days.  "For 
the  duration  of  the  ^  war."  Well,  the  war  was  finished. 
There  was  to  be  no  more  fighting' — and  the  wife  wanted 
her  man,  and  the  mother  her  son.  "Demobilisation"  be- 
came the  word  of  hope,  and  many  men  were  sullen  at 
the  delays  which  kept  them  in  exile  and  in  servitude. 
The  men  sent  deputations  to  their  officers.  The  officers 
pulled  wires  for  themselves  which  tinkled  little  bells  as* 
far  away  as  the  War  Office,  Whitehall,  if  they  had  a 
strong  enough  pull.  One  by  one,  friends  of  mine  slipped 
away  after  a  word  of  farewell  and  a  cheerful  grin. 
"Demobbed!  .  .  .  Back  to  civvies!  .  .  .  Home!" 
Harding  was  one  of  those  who  agonised  for  civil  lib- 
erty, and  release  from  military  restraint,  and  the  reason 

210 


211 

of  it  lay  in  his  pocket-book,  where  there  was  the  photo- 
graph of  a  pretty  girl — his  wife. 

We  had  become  good  friends,  and  he  confided  to  me 
many  things  about  his  state  of  mind  with  a  simplicity 
and  a  sincerity  which  made  me  like  him.  I  never  met  a 
man  more  English  in  all  his  characteristics,  or  more 
typical  of  the  quality  which  belongs  to  our  strength  and 
our  weakness.  As  a  Harrow  boy,  his  manners  were 
perfect,  according  to  the  English  code — quiet,  unemo- 
tional, easy,  unobtrusively  thoughtful  of  other  people's 
comfort  in  little  things.  According  to  the  French  Code, 
he  would  have  been  considered  cold,  arrogant,  conceited 
and  stupid.  Certainly  he  had  that  touch  of  arrogance 
which  is  in  all  Englishmen  of  the  old  tradition.  All  his 
education  and  environment  had  taught  him  to  believe 
that  English  civilisation — especially  in  the  hunting  set — 
was  perfect  and  supreme.  He  had  a  pity  rather  than 
contempt  for  those  unlucky  enough  to  be  born  French- 
men, Italians,  or  of  any  other  race.  He  was  not  stupid 
by  nature — on  the  contrary,  he  had  sound  judgment  on 
matters  within  his  range  of  knowledge  and  a  rapid  grasp 
of  detail,  but  his  vision  was  shut  in  by  those  frontiers  of 
thought  which  limit  public-school  life  in  England  and 
certain  sets  at  Oxford  who  do  not  break  free,  and  do  not 
wish  to  break  free,  from  the  conventional  formula  of 
"good  form,"  which  regulates  every  movement  of  their 
brain  as  well  as  every  action  of  their  lives.  It  is,  in  its 
way,  a  noble  formula,  and  makes  for  aristocracy.  My 
country,  right  or  wrong;  loyalty  to  King  and  State;  the 
divine  right  of  the  British  race  to  rule  uncivilised  peoples 
for  their  own  good ;  the  undoubted  fact  that  an  English 
gentleman  is  the  noblest  work  of  God;  the  duties  of 
"noblesse  oblige"  in  courage,  in  sacrifice,  in  good  man- 
ners, and  in  playing  the  game,  whatever  the  game  may 
be,  in  a  sporting  spirit. 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

When  I  was  in  Harding's  company  I  knew  that  it  was 
ridiculous  to  discuss  any  subject  which  lay  beyond  that 
formula.  It  was  impossible  to  suggest  that  England  had 
ever  been  guilty  of  the  slightest  injustice,  a  touch  of 
greed,  or  a  tinge  of  hypocrisy,  or  something  less  than 
wisdom.  To  him  that  was  just  traitor's  talk.  A  plea 
for  the  better  understanding  of  Ireland,  for  a  generous 
measure  of  "self-determination"  would  have  roused  him 
to  a  hot  outburst  of  anger.  The  Irish  to  him  were  all 
treacherous,  disloyal  blackguards,  and  the  only  remedy 
of  the  Irish  problem  was,  he  thought,  martial  law  and 
machine-gun  demonstrations,  stern  and,  if  need  be,  ter- 
rible. I  did  not  argue  with  him,  or  chaff  him  as  some 
of  his  comrades  did,  and,  keeping  within  the  prescribed 
limits  of  conversation  set  by  his  code,  we  got  on  together 
admirably.  Once  only  in  those  days  on  the  Rhine  did 
Harding  show  an  emotion  which  would  have  been  con- 
demned by  his  code.  It  was  due,  no  doubt,  to  that 
nervous  fever  which  made  some  wag  change  the  word 
"demobilisation"  into  "demoralisation." 

He  had  a  room  in  the  Domhof  Hotel,  and  invited  me 
to  drink  a  whiskey  with  him  there  one  evening.  When 
I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  while  he  dispensed  the  drink, 
I  noticed  on  his  dressing-table  a  large  photograph  of  a 
girl  in  evening  dress — a  wonderfully  pretty  girl,  I 
thought. 

He  caught  my  glance,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
and  a  visible  blush,  said : 

"My  wife.  .  .  .  We  were  married  before  I  came  out, 
two  years  ago  exactly." 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  tunic 
and  pulling  out  a  pocket-book,  opened  it  with  a  snap,  and 
showed  me  another  photograph. 

"That's  a  better  one  of  her." 

I  congratulated  him,  but  without  listening  to  my  words 


THROUGH  HOSTILE,  GATES  213 

he  asked  me  rather  awkwardly  whether  I  could  pull  any 
strings  for  him  to  get  "demobbed." 

"It's  all  a  question  of  'pull,'  "  he  said,  "and  I'm  not 
good  at  that  kind  of  thing.  But  I  want  to  get  home." 

"Everybody  does,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  I  know,  and  of  course  I  want  to  play  the  game, 
and  all  that.  But  the  fact  is,  my  wife — she's  only  a  kid, 
you  know — is  rather  hipped  with  my  long  absence.  She'sj 
been  trying  to  keep  herself  merry  and  bright,  and  all  that, 
with  the  usual  kind  of  war-work.  You  know — charity 
bazaars,  fancy-dress  balls  for  the  wounded,  Red  Cross 
work,  and  all  that.  Very  plucky,  too.  But  the  fact  is, 
some  of  her  letters  lately  have  been  rather — well — rather 
below  par, — you  know — rather  chippy  and  all  that.  The 
fact  is,  old  man,  she's  been  too  much  alone,  and  any- 
thing you  can  do  in  the  way  of  a  pull  at  the  War 
Office " 

I  told  him  bluntly  that  I  had  as  much  influence  at  the 
War  Office  as  the  charwoman  in  Room  M.I.8,  or  any 
other  old  room — not  so  much — and  he  was  damped,  and 
apologised  for  troubling  me.  However,  I  promised  to 
>vrite  to  the  one  High  Bird  with  whom  I  had  a  slight 
acquaintance,  and  this  cheered  him  up  considerably. 

I  stayed  chatting  for  some  time — the  usual  small-talk 
— and  it  was  only  when  I  said  good-night  that  he 
broached  another  subject  which  interested  me  a  good 
deal. 

"I'm  getting  a  bit  worried  about  Wickham  Brand,"  he 
remarked  in  a  casual  kind  of  way. 

"How's  that?" 

I  gathered  from  Harding*s  vague,  disjointed  sentences 
that  Brand  was  falling  into  the  clutches  of  a  German 
hussy.  He  had  seen  them  together  at  the  Opera — they 
had  met  as  if  by  accident — and  one  evening  he  had  seen 
them  together  down  by  the  Rhine  outside  Cologne.  He 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

was  bound  to  admit  the  girl  was  remarkably  good-look- 
ing, and  that  made  her  all  the  more  dangerous.  He 
hated  to  mention  this,  as  it  seemed  like  scandal-monger- 
ing  about  "one  of  the  best,"  but  he  was  frightfully  dis- 
turbed by  the  thought  that  Brand,  of  all  men,  should  fall 
a  victim  to  the  wiles  of  a  "lady  Hun."  He  knew  Brand's 
people  at  home — Sir  Amyas  Brand,  the  Member  of  Par- 
liament, and  his  mother,  who  was  a  daughter  of  the 
Harringtons.  They  would  be  enormously  "hipped"  i^ 
Wickham  were  to  do  anything  foolish.  It  was  only  be- 
cause he  knew  that  I  was  Wickham's  best  chum  that 
he  told  me  these  things,  in  the  strictest  confidence.  A 
word  of  warning  from  me  might  save  old  Brand  from 
getting  into  a  horrible  mess — "and  all  that." 

I  pooh-poohed  Harding's  fears,  but  when  I  left  him 
to  go  to  my  own  billet  I  pondered  over  his  words,  and 
knew  that  there  was  truth  in  them. 

There  was  no  doubt  to  my  mind  that  Brand  was  in 
love  with  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach.  At  least,  he  was  going 
through  some  queer  emotional  phase  connected  with  her 
entry  into  his  life,  and  he  was  not  happy  about  it,  though 
it  excited  him.  The  very  day  after  Harding  spoke  to  me 
on  the  subject  I  was,  involuntarily,  a  spy  upon  Brand 
and  Fraulein  Elsa  on  a  journey  when  we  were  fellow- 
travellers,  though  they  were  utterly  unaware  of  my  pres- 
ence. It  was  in  one  of  the  long  electric  trams  which 
go  without  a  stop  from  Cologne  to  Bonn.  I  did  not 
see  Brand  until  I  had  taken  my  seat  in  the  small  first-class 
smoking-car.  Several  middle-class  Germans  were  there, 
and  I  was  wedged  between  two  of  them  in  a  corner. 
Brand  and  a  girl  whom  I  guessed  to  be  Elsa  von  Kreuz- 
enach were  on  the  opposite  seat,  but  farthest  away  from 
me,  and  screened  a  little  by  a  German  lady  with  a  large 
feathered  hat.  If  Brand  had  looked  round  the  com- 
partment he  would  have  seen  me  at  once,  and  I  waited 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  215 

to  nod  to  him,  but  never  once  did  he  glance  my  way,  but 
turned  slightly  sideways  towards  the  girl,  so  that  I  only 
saw  his  profile.  Her  face  was  in  the  same  way  turned 
a  little  to  him,  and  I  could  see  every  shade  of  expression 
which  revealed  her  moods  as  she  talked,  and  the  varying 
light  in  her  eyes.  She  was  certainly  a  pretty  thing,  ex- 
quisite, even,  in  delicacy  of  colour  and  fineness  of  feature, 
with  that  "spun-gold"  hair  of  hers;  though  I  thought 
(remembering  Dr.  Small's  words)  that  she  had  a  worn 
and  fragile  look  which  robbed  her  of  the  final  touch  of 
beauty.  For  some  time  they  exchanged  only  a  few 
words  now  and  then,  which  I  could  not  hear,  and  I  was 
reading  a  book  when  I  heard  Brand  say  in  his  clear, 
rather  harsh  voice: 

"Will  your  people  be  anxious  about  you?" 

The  girl  answered  in  a  low  voice.  I  glanced  up  and 
saw  that  she  was  smiling,  not  at  Brand,  but  at  the  coun- 
tryside which  seemed  to  travel  past  us  as  the  tram  went 
on  its  way.  It  was  the  smile  of  a  girl  to  whom  life 
meant  something  good  just  then. 

Brand  spoke  again. 

"I  should  hate  to  let  your  mother  think  that  I  have 
been  disloyal  to  her  confidence.  Don't  let  this  friendship 
of  ours  be  spoilt  by  secrecy.  I  am  not  afraid  of  it !" 

He  laughed  in  a  way  that  was  strange  to  me.  There 
was  a  note  of  joy  in  it  It  was  a  boy's  laugh,  and  Brand 
had  gone  beyond  boyhood  in  the  war.  I  saw  one  or  two 
of  the  Germans  look  up  at  him  curiously,  and  then  stare 
at  the  girl,  not  in  a  friendly  way.  She  was  unconscious 
of  their  gaze,  though  a  wave  of  colour  swept  her  face. 
For  a  second  she  laid  her  hand  on  Brand's  brown  fist, 
and  it  was  a  quick  caress. 

"Our  friendship  is  good!"  she  said. 

She  spoke  these  words  very  softly,  in  almost  a  whisper, 
but  I  heard  them  in  spite  of  the  rattle  of  the  tramcar  and 


216  WOUNDED  SOULS 

the  guttural  argument  of  two  Germans  next  to  me. 
Those  were  the  only  words  I  heard  her  say  on  that  jour- 
ney to  Bonn,  and  after  that  Brand  talked  very  little,  and 
then  only  commonplace  remarks  about  the  time  and  the 
scenery.  But  what  I  had  heard  was  revealing,  and  I 
was  disturbed,  for  Brand's  sake. 

His  eyes  met  mine  as  I  passed  out  of  the  car,  but  they 
were  unseeing  eyes.  He  stared  straight  through  me  to 
some  vision  beyond.  He  gave  his  hand  to  Elsa  von 
Kreuzenach  and  they  walked  slowly  up  from  the  station 
and  then  went  inside  the  Cathedral.  I  had  business  in 
Bonn  with  officers  at  our  headquarters  in  the  hotel,  "Die 
Goldene  Stern."  Afterwards  I  had  lunch  with  them,  and 
then,  with  one,  went  to  Beethoven's  house — a  little  shrine- 
in  which  the  spirit  of  the  master  still  lives,  with  his  old 
instruments,  his  manuscript  sheets  of  music  and  many 
relics  of  his  life  and  work. 

It  was  at  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  that  I 
saw  Brand  and  the  German  girl  again.  There  was  a 
beautiful  dusk  in  the  gardens  beyond  the  University, 
with  a  ruddy  glow  through  the  trees  when  the  sun  went 
down,  and  then  a  purple  twilight.  Some  German  boys 
were  playing  leap-frog  there,  watched  by  British  sol- 
diers, and  townsfolk  passed  on  their  way  home.  I 
strolled  the  length  of  the  gardens  and  at  the  end  which 
is  near  the  old  front  of  the  University  buildings  I 
saw  Brand  and  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  together  on  a 
wooden  seat.  It  was  almost  dark  where  they  sat  under 
the  trees,  but  I  knew  Brand  by  his  figure  and  by  the 
tilt  of  his  field-cap,  and  the  girl  by  the  white  fur  round 
her  neck.  They  were  holding  hands  like  lovers  in  a  Lon- 
don park,  and  when  I  passed  them  I  heard  Brand  speak. 

"I  suppose  this  was  meant  to  be.     Fate  leads  us.  .  .  ." 

When  I  went  back  to  Cologne  by  tram  that  evening  I 
wondered  whether  Brand  would  confide  his  secret  to  me. 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  217 

We  had  been  so  much  together  during  the  last  phase  of 
the  war  and  had  talked  so  much  in  intimate  friendship 
that  I  guessed  he  would  come  one  day  and  let  me  know 
this  new  adventure  of  his  soul. 

Several  weeks  passed  and  he  said  no  word  of  this, 
though  we  went  for  walks  together  and  sat  smoking 
sometimes  in  cafes  after  dinner.  It  had  always  been 
his  habit  to  drop  into  deep  silences,  and  now  they  lasted 
longer  than  before.  Now  and  then,  however,  he  would 
be  talkative,  argumentative,  and  passionate.  At  times 
there  was  a  new  light  in  his  eyes,  as  though  lit  by  some 
inward  fire.  And  he  would  smile  unconsciously  as  he 
blew  out  clouds  of  smoke,  but  more  often  he  looked  wor- 
ried, nervous,  and  irritable,  as  though  passing  through 
some  new  mental  crisis. 

He  spoke  a  good  deal  about  German  psychology  and 
the  German  point  of  view,  illustrating  his  remarks  some- 
times by  references  to  conversations  with  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach,  with  whom  he  often  talked.  He  had  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  quite  hopeless  to  convince 
even  the  broadest-minded  Germans  that  they  were  guilty 
of  the  war.  They  admitted  freely  enough  that  their  mili- 
tary party  had  used  the  Serbian  assassination  and  Aus- 
trian fury  as  the  fuel  for  starting  the  blaze  in  Europe. 
Even  then  they  believed  that  the  Chancellor  and  the  civil 
Ministry  of  State  had  struggled  for  peace  until  the  Rus- 
sian movements  of  troops  put  the  military  party  into  the 
saddle  so  that  they  might  ride  to  Hell.  But  in  any  case 
it  was,  Brand  said,  an  unalterable  conviction  of  most 
Germans  that  sooner  or  later  the  war  had  been  bound  to 
come,  as  they  were  surrounded  by  a  ring  of  enemies  con- 
spiring to  thwart  their  free  development  and  to  over- 
throw their  power.  They  attacked  first  as  a  means  of 
self-defence.  It  was  an  article  of  faith  with  them  that 
they  had  fought  a  defensive  warfare  from  the  start. 


218  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"That  is  sheer  lunacy!"  I  said.  Brand  laughed,  and 
agreed. 

"Idiotic  in  the  face  of  plain  facts,  but  that  only  shows, 
how  strong  is  the  belief  of  people  in  their  own  righteous- 
ness. I  suppose  even  now  most  English  people  think  the 
Boer  war  was  just  and  holy.  Certainly  at  the  time  we 
stoned  all  who  thought  otherwise.  Yet  the  verdict  of 
the  whole  world  was  against  us.  They  regarded  that 
war  as  the  brutal  aggression  of  a  great  Power  upon  a 
small  and  heroic  people." 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  "a  man  like  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach  admits  the  brutality  of  Germany  in  Belgium 
— the  shooting  of  priests  and  civilians — the  forced  labour 
of  girls — the  smashing  of  machinery — and  all  the  rest 
of  it?" 

Brand  said  that  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  deplored  the 
"severity"  of  German  acts,  but  blamed  the  code  of  war 
which  justified  such  acts.  It  was  not  his  view  that  Ger- 
mans had  behaved  with  exceptional  brutality,  but  that 
war  itself  is  a  brutal  way  of  argument.  'We  must  abol- 
ish war/  he  says,  'not  pretend  to  make  it  kind.'  As  far 
as  that  goes,  I  agree  with  him." 

"How  about  poison  gas,  the  Lusltania,  the  sinking  of 
hospital  ships,  submarine  warfare?" 

Brand  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"The  German  answer  is  always  the  same.  War  is 
war,  and  they  were  hard-pressed  by  our  superiority  in 
material,  man-power  and  sea  power.  We  were  starving 
them  to  death  with  our  blockade.  They  saw  their  chil- 
dren dying  from  disease,  their  old  people  carried  to  the 
grave,  their  men  weakened.  They  had  to  break  through 
somehow,  anyhow,  to  save  their  race.  I  don't  think  we 
should  have  stopped  at  much  if  England  had  been  ringed 
round  with  enemy  ships  and  the  kids  were  starving  in 
Mayfair  and  Maida  Vale,  and  every  town  and  hamlet." 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  219 

He  laughed,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  as  he  lit  his 
pipe  for  about  the  fifteenth  time. 

"Argument  is  no  good,"  he  said.  "I've  argued  into 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning  with  that  fellow  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach,  who  is  a  fine  fellow  and  the  whitest  man 
I've  met  in  Germany.  Nothing  will  convince  him  that 
his  people  were  more  guilty  than  ourselves.  Perhaps  he's 
right.  History  will  decide.  Now  we  must  start  afresh 
— wipe  out  the  black  past,  confess  that  though  the  Ger- 
mans started  the  war  we  were  all  possessed  by  the  devil — 
and  exorcise  ourselves.  I  believe  the  German  people 
are  ready  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  start  a  freshf 
chapter  of  history,  if  we  will  help  them  and  give  them 
a  chance.  They  have  an  immense  hope  that  England 
and  America  will  not  push  them  over  into  the  bottomless 
abyss,  now  that  they  have  fulfilled  Wilson's  demand  to 
get  rid  of  their  old  rulers  and  fall  into  line  with  the 
world's  democracy.  If  that  hope  fails  them  they  will 
fall  back  to  the  old  philosophy  of  hatred  with  vengeance 
as  its  goal — and  the  Damned  Thing  will  happen  again  in 
fifteen — twenty — thirty  years." 

Brand  made  one  remark  that  evening  which  referred,  I 
fancy,  to  his  love-affair  with  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach. 

"There  is  so  much  folly  in  the  crowd  that  one  despairs 
of  reaching  a  higher  stage  of  civilisation.  I  am  falling 
back  on  individualism.  The  individual  must  follow  his 
own  ideals,  strive  for  his  own  happiness,  find  friendship 
and  a  little  love  where  he  can,  and  stand  apart  from 
world  problems,  racial  rivalries,  international  prejudices, 
as  far  as  he  may  without  being  drawn  into  the  vortex. 
Nothing  that  he  can  do  will  alter  human  destiny,  or  the 
forces  of  evolution,  or  the  cycles  of  history,  which  make 
all  striving  futile.  Let  him  get  out  of  the  rain  and 
comfort  himself  with  any  human  warmth  he  can  find. 
Two  souls  in  contact  are  company  enough." 


£20  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"Sometimes,"  I  said,  "mob  passion  tears  them  asunder 
and  protests  against  their  union  with  stones  or  outlaw 
judgment.  Taboo  will  exist  for  ever  in  human  society, 
and  it  is  devilish  unpleasant  for  individuals  who  violate 
the  rules." 

"It  needs  courage,"  said  my  friend.  "The  risk  is 
sometimes  worth  taking." 


VII 

ID  RAND  decided  to  take  the  risk,  and  though  he  asked 
•*-*  my  advice  beforehand,  as  a  matter  of  friendship,  I 
knew  my  warnings  were  useless.  It  was  about  a  month 
after  that  tram  journey  to  Bonn  that  he  came  into  my 
room  at  the  Domhof,  looking  rather  pale  but  with  a  kind 
of  glitter  in  his  eyes. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  he  said  abruptly,  "that  I  am 
going  to  marry  a  German  girl." 

"Elsa  von  Kreuzenach?" 

"Yes.     How  did  you  know  ?" 

"Just  a  guess." 

"It's  against  her  parents'  wish,"  he  said,  "to  say  noth- 
ing of  my  parents,  who  think  I  have  gone  mad.  Elsa 
and  I  will  have  to  play  a  lone  hand." 

"  'Lone'  is  not  the  word,"  I  suggested.  "You  are 
breaking  that  taboo  we  talked  of.  You  will  be  shunned 
by  every  friend  you  have  in  the  world — except  one  or 
two  queer  people  like  myself" — (Here  he  said,  "Thanks," 
and  grinned  rather  gratefully)  "and  both  you  and  she 
will  be  pariahs  in  England,  Germany,  and  anywhere  on 
the  wide  earth  where  there  are  English,  Germans,  French, 
Americans  and  others  who  fought  the  war.  I  suppose 
you  know  that?" 

"Perfectly,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

I  told  him  that  I  was  amazed  that  he  of  all  men  should 
fall  in  love  with  a  German  girl — he  who  had  seen  all 
the  abomination  of  the  war,  and  had  come  out  to  it  with 
a  flaming  idealism.  To  that  he  answered  savagely : 

221 


222  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"Flaming  idealism  be  blowed !  I  came  out  with  blood- 
lust  in  my  heart,  and  having  killed  until  I  was  sick  of 
killing — German  boys  who  popped  their  heads  over  the 
parapet — I  saw  that  the  whole  scheme  of  things  was 
wrong,  and  that  the  grey  men  had  no  more  power  of 
escape  than  the  brown  men.  We  had  to  go  on  killing 
each  other  because  we  were  both  under  the  same  law, 
thrust  upon  us  by  those  directing  the  infernal  machinery 
of  world-politics.  But  that's  not  the  point,  and  it's  old 
and  stale,  anyhow." 

"The  point  is,"  I  said,  "that  you  will  be  looked  upon 
as  a  traitor  by  many  of  your  best  pals,  that  you  will 
smash  your  father  and  mother,  and  that  this  girl  Elsa 
and  you  will  be  profoundly  miserable." 

"We  shall  be  enormously  and  immensely  happy,"  he 
answered,  "and  that  outweighs  everything." 

He  told  me  that  he  needed  happiness.  For  more  than 
four  years  he  had  suffered  agony  of  mind  in  the  filth  and 
mud  of  war.  He  craved  for  beauty,  and  Elsa  fulfilled 
his  ideal.  He  had  been  a  lonely  devil,  and  Elsa  had 
offered  him  the  only  cure  for  the  worst  disease  in  life, 
intimate  and  eternal  love. 

Something  prompted  me  to  say  words  which  I  deeply 
regretted  as  soon  as  they  were  spoken.  It  was  the  utter- 
ance of  a  subconscious  thought. 

"There  is  a  girl,  not  German,  who  might  have  cured 
your  loneliness.  You  and  Eileen  O'Connor  would  have 
made  good  mates." 

For  some  reason  he  was  hit  rather  hard  by  that  remark. 
He  became  exceedingly  pale,  and  for  a  moment  or  two 
did  not  answer  me.  I  thought  he  would  blurt  out  some 
angry  reply,  damning  my  impudence,  but  when  he  spoke 
it  was  in  a  grave,  gentle  way  which  seemed  to  me  more 
puzzling. 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  223 

"Eileen  would  make  a  fine  wife  for  any  man  she  liked. 
But  she's  above  most  of  us." 

We  stayed  up,  talking,  nearly  all  that  night,  and  Wick- 
ham  Brand  described  one  scene  within  his  recent  experi- 
ences which  must  have  been  sensational.  It  was  when  he 
announced  to  the  family  von  Kreuzenach  that  he  loved 
Elsa  and  desired  her  hand  in  marriage. 

Brand's  sense  of  humour  came  back  to  him  when  he 
told  me  of  this  episode,  and  he  laughed  now  at  the  fright- 
fulness  of  his  ordeal.  It  was  he  who  had  insisted  upon 
announcing  the  news  to  Elsa's  parents,  to  avoid  any 
charge  of  dishonesty.  Elsa  herself  was  in  favour  of 
hiding  their  love  until  Peace  was  declared,  when  perhaps 
the  passionate  hostility  of  her  parents  to  England  might 
be  abated.  For  Brand's  sake  also  she  thought  it  would 
be  better.  But  she  yielded  to  his  argument  that  secrecy 
might  spoil  the  beauty  of  their  friendship,  and  give  it 
an  ugly  taint. 

"We'll  go  through  with  it  straight  from  the  start," 
he  had  cried. 

Elsa's  answer  was  quick  and  glad. 

"I  have  no  fear  now  of  anything  in  the  world  except 
the  loss  of  you!" 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  was  the  first  to  know,  and 
Elsa  told  him.  He  seemed  stunned  with  surprise,  and 
then  immensely  glad,  as  he  took  his  sister  in  his  arms 
and.  kissed  her. 

"Your  marriage  with  an  English  officer,"  he  said,  "will 
be  the  symbol  of  reconciliation  between  England  and 
Germany." 

After  that  he  remembered  his  father  and  mother,  and 
was  a  coward  at  the  thought  of  their  hostility.  The  idea 
of  telling  his  father,  as  Elsa  asked  him  to  do,  put  him 
into  what  Brand  called  "the  bluest  of  blue  funk."  He 
had  the  German  reverence  for  parental  authority  and 


££4  WOUNDED  SOULS 

though  he  went  as  far  as  the  door-handle  of  his  father's 
study,  he  retreated,  and  said  in  a  boyish  way,  speaking  in 
English,  as  usual,  with  Brand  and  his  sister: 

"I  haven't  the  pluck!  I  would  rather  face  shell-fire 
than  my  father's  wrath." 

It  was  Brand  who  "went  over  the  top." 

He  made  his  announcement  formally,  in  the  drawing- 
room  after  dinner,  in  the  curiously  casual  way  which 
proved  him  a  true  Englishman.  He  cleared  his  throat 
(he  told  me,  grinning  at  his  own  mannerism),  and  dur- 
ing a  gap  in  the  conversation  said  to  the  General : 

"By  the  way,  sir,  I  have  something  rather  special  to 
mention  to-night." 

"Bitte?"  said  the  old  General,  with  his  hard,  deliberate 
courtesy. 

"Your  daughter  and  I,"  said  Brand,  "wish  to  be  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  possible.  I  have  the  honour  to  ask  your 
consent." 

Brand  told  me  of  the  awful  silence  which  followed  his 
statement.  It  seemed  interminable.  Franz  von  Kreuze- 
nach,  who  was  present,  was  as  white  as  though  he  had 
been  condemned  to  death  by  court-martial.  Elsa  was 
speechless,  but  came  over  to  Brand's  side  and  held  his 
hand.  Her  mother  had  the  appearance  of  a  lady  startled 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  poisonous  snake.  The 
General  sat  back  in  his  chair,  grasping  its  arms  and  gasp- 
ing for  breath  as  though  Brand  had  hit  him  in  the 
stomach. 

It  was  the  mother  who  spoke  first,  and  ignoring  Brand 
completely,  she  addressed  her  daughter  harshly. 

"You  are  mad,  Elsa!" 

"Yes,  Mother,"  said  the  girl.     "I  am  mad  with  joy." 

"This  English  officer  insults  us  intolerably,"  said  the 
mother,  still  ignoring  Brand  by  any  glance.  "We  were 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  225 

forced  to  receive  him  into  our  house.  At  least  he  might 
have  behaved  with  decency  and  respect." 

"Mother,"  said  Elsa,  "this  gentleman  has  given  me 
the  great  honour  of  his  love." 

"To  accept  it,"  said  the  lady,  "would  be  a  dishonour 
so  dreadful  for  a  good  German  girl  that  I  refuse  to 
believe  it  possible." 

"It  is  true,  Mother,  and  I  am  wonderfully  happy." 

Elsa  went  over  to  her  mother,  sinking  down  on  her 
knees,  and  kissing  the  lady's  hand.  But  Frau  von  Kreuze- 
nach  withdrew  her  hand  quickly,  and  then  rose  from 
her  chair  and  stood  behind  her  husband,  with  one  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

The  old  man  had  found  his  means  of  speech  at  last. 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  stern  voice  to  his  daughter.  Brand 
was  ignored  by  him  as  by  the  mother.  They  did  not 
recognise  his  presence. 

"My  daughter,"  he  said  (if  Brand  remembered  his 
words),  "the  German  people  have  been  brought  to  ruin 
and  humiliated  by  one  nation  in  Europe  who  was  jealous 
of  our  power  and  genius.  That  nation  was  England,  our 
treacherous,  hypocritical  enemy.  Without  England, 
France  would  have  been  smashed.  Without  England 
our  Emperor  would  have  prevailed  over  all  his  enemies. 
Without  the  English  blockade  we  should  not  have  been 
weakened  by  hunger,  deprived  of  the  raw  material  neces- 
sary to  victory,  starved  so  that  our  children  died,  and 
our  will  to  win  was  sapped.  They  were  English  soldiers 
who  killed  my  dear  son  Heinrich,  and  your  brother. 
The  flower  of  German  manhood  was  slain  by  the  English 
in  Flanders  and  on  the  Somme." 

The  General  spoke  very  quietly,  with  an  intensity  of 
effort  to  be  calm.  But  suddenly  his  voice  rose,  said 
Brand,  to  a  kind  of  harsh  shout. 

"Any  German  girl  who  permits  herself  to  love  an 


226  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Englishman  is  a  traitorous  hussy.  I  would  have  her 
stripped  and  flogged.  The  curse  of  our  old  German  God 
shall  follow  her." 

Another  silence,  in  which  there  was  no  sound  except 
the  noisy  breathing  of  the  old  man,  was  broken  by  the 
hard  voice  of  Frau  von  Kreuzenach. 

"Your  father  has  spoken,  Elsa.  There  is  no  more  to 
say/' 

Elsa  had  become  very  pale,  but  she  was  smiling  at 
Brand,  he  told  me,  and  still  held  his  hand  in  a  tight 


"There  is  something  more  to  say,  my  dear  father  and 
mother,"  she  answered.  "It  is  that  I  love  Captain  Brand, 
and  that  I  will  follow  him  anywhere  in  the  world  if  he 
will  take  me.  For  love  is  stronger  than  hate,  and  above 
all  nationality." 

It  was  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  who  spoke  now.  He 
was  standing  at  the  table,  facing  his  father,  and  it  was 
to  his  father  that  he  talked.  He  said  that  Elsa  was  right 
about  love.  In  spite  of  the  war,  the  souls  of  men  and 
women  were  not  separated  by  racial  boundaries.  When 
two  souls  touched  and  mingled,  no  hatred  of  peoples,  no 
patriotic  passion,  could  intervene.  Elsa's  love  for  an 
English  ^gentleman  was  but  a  symbol  of  the  peace  that 
was  coming,  when  all  countries  would  be  united  in  a 
Society  of  Nations  with  equal  rights  and  equal  duties, 
and  a  common  brotherhood.  They  saw  in  the  streets  of 
Cologne  that  there  was  no  natural,  inevitable  hatred  be- 
tween English  and  Germans.  The  Army  of  Occupation 
had  proved  itself  to  be  an  instrument  of  good  will  be- 
tween those  who  had  tried  to  kill  each  other  for  four 
years  of  slaughter.  Captain  Brand  had  behaved  with 
the  most  charming  courtesy  and  chivalry,  according  to 
the  traditions  of  an  English  gentleman,  and  he,  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach,  was  glad  and  honoured  because  this 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  227 

officer  desired  to  take  Elsa  for  his  wife.  Their  marriage 
would  be  a  consecration  of  the  new  peace. 

The  father  listened  to  him  silently,  except  for  that 
hard  noise  of  breathing.  When  his  son  uttered  those 
last  words,  the  old  man  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  and 
his  eyes  glittered. 

"Get  out  of  my  house,  Schweinhund!  Do  not  come 
near  me  again,  or  I  will  denounce  you  as  a  traitor,  and 
shoot  you  like  a  dog." 

He  turned  to  Elsa  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Go  up  to  bed,  girl.  If  you  were  younger  I  would 
flog  you  with  my  hunting-whip." 

For  the  first  time  he  spoke  to  Brand,  controlling  his 
rage  with  a  convulsive  effort. 

"I  have  not  the  power  to  evict  you  from  the  house. 
For  the  time  being  the  German  people  of  the  Rhineland 
are  under  hostile  orders.  Perhaps  you  will  find  another 
billet  more  to  your  convenience,  and  more  agreeable  to 
myself." 

"To-night,  sir,"  said  Brand,  and  he  told  me  that  he 
admired  the  old  man's  self-control  and  his  studied  dig- 
nity. 

Elsa  still  clasped  his  hand,  and  before  her  family  he 
kissed  her. 

"With  your  leave,  or  without  leave,"  he  said,  "your 
daughter  and  I  will  be  man  and  wife,  for  you  have  no 
right  to  stand  between  our  love." 

He  bowed  and  left  the  room,  and  in  an  hour,  the 
house. 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  came  into  his  room  before  he 
left,  and  wrung  his  hand. 

"I  must  go,  too,"  he  said.  "My  father  is  very  much 
enraged  with  me.  It  is  the  break  between  the  young 
and  the  old — the  new  conflict,  as  we  were  saying,  one 
day." 


228  WOUNDED  SOULS 

He  was  near  weeping,  and  Brand  apologised  for  being 
the  cause  of  so  much  trouble. 

In  the  hall  Elsa  came  to  Brand,  as  the  orderly  carried 
out  his  bags. 

"To-morrow,"  she  said,  "we  will  meet  at  Elizabeth 
von  Detmold's — my  true  friend." 

Her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears,  but  she  was  smiling, 
and  there  was,  said  Brand,  a  fine  courage  shining  in 
her  face. 

She  put  her  hands  on  Brand's  shoulders,  and  kissed 
him,  to  the  deep  astonishment  and  embarrassment  of  the 
orderly,  who  stood  by.  It  was  from  this  man,  Brock, 
that  the  news  of  Brand's  "entanglement"  spread,  through 
other  orderlies,  to  officers  of  his  mess,  as  he  knew  by 
the  cold  shoulder  that  some  of  them  turned  to  him. 


VIII 

T  MET  Elsa  and  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  at  the  house 
•••  of  Elizabeth  von  Detmold  in  the  Hohenzollern  ring, 
which  became  a  meeting-place  for  Brand  and  the  girl  to 
whom  he  was  now  betrothed.  Dr.  Small  and  I  went 
round  there  to  tea,  at  Brand's  invitation,  and  I  spent 
several  evenings  there,  owing  to  the  friendship  of  Eliza- 
beth von  Detmold,  who  seemed  to  like  my  company. 
That  lady  was  in  many  ways  remarkable,  and  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  in  spite  of  my  repugnance  to  many 
qualities  of  the  German  character  I  found  her  charming. 
The  tragedy  of  the  war  had  hit  her  with  an  almost  par- 
ticular malignancy.  Married  in  1914  to  a  young  officer 
of  the  Prussian  Guard,  she  was  widowed  at  the  first 
battle  of  Ypres.  Her  three  brothers  had  been  killed  in 
1915,  '16  and  '17.  Both  her  parents  had  died  during 
the  war,  owing  to  its  accumulating  horror.  At  twenty- 
six  years  of  age  she  was  left  alone  in  her  big  house, 
with  hardly  enough  money  for  its  upkeep,  and  not 
enough  to  supplement  the  rigid  war  rations  which  were 
barely  sufficient  for  life.  I  suppose  there  were  thou- 
sands of  young  women  in  Germany — hundreds  of  thou- 
sands— who  had  the  same  cause  for  sorrow  (we  do  not 
realise  how  German  families  were  massacred  in  that 
blood-bath  of  war,  so  that  even  French  and  British  losses 
pale  in  tragedy  before  their  piled  dead),  but  there  were 
few,  I  am  sure,  who  faced  their  grief  with  such  high 
courage,  and  such  unembittered  charity.  Like  Elsa  von 
Kreuzenach,  she  devoted  her  days  to  suffering  childhood 
in  the  creches  and  feeding-centres  which  she  had  helped 

229 


230  WOUNDED  SOULS 

to  organise,  and  she  spent  many  of  her  evenings  in  work- 
ing-women's clubs,  and  sometimes  in  working-men's 
clubs,  where  she  read  and  lectured  to  them  on  social 
problems.  The  war  had  made  her  an  ardent  Pacifist, 
and  to  some  extent  a  revolutionary  of  the  Liebknecht 
school.  She  saw  no  hope  for  civilisation  so  long  as  the 
Junker  caste  remained  in  Europe,  and  the  philosophy  of 
militarism,  which  she  believed  stood  fast  not  only  in 
Germany  but  in  France  and  England,  and  other  nations. 
She  had  a  passionate  belief,  like  many  other  German 
people  at  that  time,  in  President  Wilson  and  his  League 
of  Nations,  and  put  all  her  hopes  in  the  United  States  as 
the  one  power  in  the  world  who  could  make  a  peace  of 
reconciliation  and  establish  a  new  brotherhood  of  peo- 
ples. After  that  she  looked  to  a  social  revolution 
throughout  the  world  by  which  the  working-classes 
should  obtain  full  control  of  their  own  destiny  and  la- 
bour. 

I  found  it  strange  to  hear  that  patrician  girl,  for  she 
was  one  of  the  aristocratic  caste,  with  an  elegance  that 
came  from  long  breeding,  adopting  the  extreme  views 
of  revolutionary  socialism,  not  as  a  pretty  intellectual 
theory  but  with  a  passionate  courage  that  might  lead 
her  to  prison  or  to  death  in  the  conflict  between  the  old 
powers  and  the  new. 

To  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  she  behaved  in  a  protective 
and  mothering  way,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  "Brand's 
girl,"  as  Dr.  Small  called  her,  was  the  spiritual  child 
of  this  stronger  and  more  vital  character.  Elsa  was,  I 
fancy,  timid  of  those  political  and  pacifist  ideas  which 
Elizabeth  von  Detmold  stated  with  such  frank  audacity. 
She  cherished  the  spirit  of  the  human  charity  which  gave 
them  their  motive  power,  but  shrank  from  the  thought 
of  the  social  strife  and  change  which  must  precede  them. 
Yet  there  was  nothing  doll-like  in  her  character.  There 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  231 

were  moments  when  I  saw  her  face  illumined  by  a  kind 
of  mediaeval  mysticism  which  was  the  light  of  a  spirit 
revealed  perhaps  by  the  physical  casket  which  held  it, 
insecurely.  Truly  she  was  as  pretty  and  delicate  as  a 
piece  of  Dresden  china,  but  for  Brand's  sake  I  did  not 
like  the  fragile  look  which  hinted  at  a  quick  fading  of 
her  flower-like  beauty.  Her  adoration  for  Brand  was, 
in  my  opinion,  rather  pitiful.  It  was  very  German,  too, 
in  its  meek  reverence,  as  of  a  mediaeval  maid  to  knight- 
hood. I  prefer  the  way  of  French  womanhood,  con- 
vinced of  intellectual  equality  with  men,  and  with  their 
abiding  sense  of  humour;  or  the  arrogance  of  the  Eng- 
lish girl,  who  makes  her  lover  prove  his  mettle  by  quiet 
obedience.  Elsa  followed  Brand  with  her  eyes  wher- 
ever he  moved,  touched  his  hard,  tanned  hand  with  little 
secret  caresses,  and  whenever  he  spoke  her  eyes  shone 
with  gladness  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  I  liked  her 
better  when  she  was  talking  to  our  little  doctor  or  to 
myself,  and  therefore  not  absorbed  in  sentiment.  At 
these  times  she  was  frank  and  vivacious,  and,  indeed, 
had  an  English  way  with  her  which  no  doubt  she  had 
learnt  in  her  Brighton  school. 

Brand  interested  me  intensely  at  these  times.  Some- 
times I  found  myself  doubting  whether  he  was  really  so 
much  in  love  with  his  German  girl  as  he  imagined  him- 
self to  be.  I  noticed  that  he  was  embarrassed  by  Elsa's 
public  demonstrations  of  love — that  way  she  had  of 
touching  his  hand,  and  another  trick  of  leaning  her  head 
against  his  shoulder.  As  a  typical  Englishman,  in  some 
parts  of  his  brain,  at  least,  he  shrank  from  exposing  his 
affection.  It  seemed  to  me  also  that  he  was  more  inter- 
ested in  political  and  psychological  problems  than  in 
the  by-play  of  love's  glances  and  revealings.  He  argued 
long  and  deeply  with  Elizabeth  von  Detmold  on  the 
philosophy  of  Karl  Marx,  the  anarchist  movement  in 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

Berlin,  and  on  the  possibility  of  a  Rhineland  Republic 
which  was  then  being  advocated  by  a  party  in  Cologne 
and  Mainz  whose  watchword  was  "Los  von  Berlin!"  and 
freedom  from  Prussian  domination  for  the  Rhine 
provinces.  Even  with  Elsa  he  led  the  conversation  to 
discussions  about  German  mentality,  the  system  of  Ger- 
man education,  and  the  possible  terms  of  peace.  Twice, 
at  least,  when  I  was  present  he  differed  with  her  rather 
bluntly — a  little  brutally  I  thought — about  the  German 
administration  of  Belgium. 

"Our  people  did  no  more  than  was  allowed  by  the 
necessities  of  war,"  said  Elsa.  "It  was  stern  and  tragic, 
but  not  more  barbarous  than  what  other  nations  would 
have  done." 

"It  was  horrible,  bloody,  and  unjustified,"  said  Brand. 

"All  war,"  said  Elizabeth  von  Detmold,  "is  bloody  and 
unjustified.  Directly  war  is  declared  the  moral  law  is 
abrogated.  It  is  simply  the  reign  of  devildom.  Why 
pretend  otherwise — or  weaken  the  devilish  logic  by  a 
few  inconsistencies  of  sentiment?" 

Brand's  answer  to  Elsa  was  not  exactly  lover-like.  I 
saw  the  colour  fade  from  her  face  at  the  harshness  of 
his  answer,  but  she  leaned  her  head  against  his  body  ( she 
was  sitting  by  his  side  on  a  low  stool),  and  was  silent 
until  her  friend  Elizabeth  had  spoken.  Then  she 
laughed,  bravely,  I  thought. 

"We  differ  in  expression,  but  we  all  agree.  What 
Wickham  thinks  is  my  thought.  I  hate  to  remember 
how  Belgium  suffered." 

Brand  was  utterly  unconscious  of  his  harsh  way  of 
speech  and  of  his  unconcealed  acknowledgment  of  Eliza- 
beth von  Detmold's  intellectual  superiority  in  her  own 
drawing-room,  so  that  when  she  spoke  his  interest  was 
directed  from  Elsa  to  this  lady. 

"Daddy"  Small  was  also  immensely  impressed  by  Frau 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  233 

Ton  Detmold's  character,  and  he  confessed  to  me  that 
he  made  notes  of  her  conversation  every  time  he  left 
her  house. 

"That  woman,"  he  said,  "will  probably  be  a  martyr 
for  civilisation.  I  find  myself  so  cussedly  in  agreement 
with  her  that  when  I  go  back  to  New  York  I  shall  prob- 
ably hang  a  Red  Flag  out  of  my  window  and  lose  all 
my  respectable  patients.  She  has  the  vision  of  the 
future." 

"What  about  Brand  and  Elsa?"  I  asked,  dragging  him 
down  to  personalities. 

He  put  his  arm  through  mine  as  we  walked  down  the 
Hohestrasse. 

"Brand,"  he  said  in  his  shrewd  way,  "is  combining 
martyrdom  with  romance — an  unsafe  combination.  The 
pretty  Elsa  has  lighted  up  his  romantic  heart  because  of 
her  adoration  and  her  feminine  sentiment.  I  don't 
blame  him.  At  his  age — after  four  years  of  war  and 
exile — her  golden-spun  hair  would  have  woven  a  web 
round  my  heart.  Youth  is  youth,  and  don't  you  forget 
•it,  my  lad." 

"Where  does  the  martyrdom  come  in  ?"  I  asked. 

The  little  doctor  blinked  through  his  horn  spectacles. 

"Don't  you  see  it  ?  Brand  has  been  working  out  new 
ideals  of  life.  After  killing  a  good  many  German  boys, 
as  sniper  and  Chief  Assassin  of  the  nth  Cbrps,  he  wants 
to  marry  a  German  girl  as  a  proclamation  to  the  world 
that  he — Wickham  Brand — has  done  with  hatred  and  is 
out  for  the  brotherhood  of  man,  and  the  breaking-down 
of  the  old  frontiers.  For  that  ideal  he  is  going  to  sacri- 
fice his  reputation,  and  make  a  martyr  of  himself — not 
forgetting  that  romance  is  pleasant  and  Elsa  von 
Kreuzenach  as  pretty  as  a  peach !  Bless  his  heart,  I  ad- 
mire his  courage  and  his  boyishness." 

Any  doubt  I  had  about  the  reality  of  Brand's  passion 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

for  Elsa  was  at  least  partly  dispelled  when  he  told  me, 
a  few  nights  later,  of  a  tragic  thing  that  had  happened 
to"  both  of  them. 

He  came  into  my  room  at  the  Domhof  as  though  he 
had  just  seen  a  ghost.  And  indeed  it  was  a  ghost  that 
had  frightened  him  and  put  a  cold  hand  between  him  and 
Elsa. 

"My  dear  old  man!"  I  cried  at  the  sight  of  him. 
"What  on  earth  has  happened  ?" 

"A  damnable  and  inconceivable  thing!" 

I  poured  him  out  some  brandy  and  he  drank  it  in 
gulps.  Then  he  did  a  strange  and  startling  thing*. 
Fumbling  in  his  breast-pocket  he  pulled  out  a  silver 
cigarette-case  and  going  over  to  the  fireplace  dropped  it 
into  the  blaze  of  the  wood  logs  which  I  had  had  lighted 
because  of  the  dampness  of  the  room. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  I  asked. 

He  watched  the  metal  box  blacken,  and  then  begin  to 
melt.  Several  times  he  poked  it  so  as  to  get  it  deeper 
into  the  red  embers. 

"My  poor  little  Elsa!"  he  said  in  a  pitiful  way.  "Mem 
Mbsches  Madel!"  - 

The  story  he  told  me  later  was  astounding.  Even 
now  to  people  who  were  not  in  the  war,  who  do  not 
know  many  strange,  fantastic  things  happened  in  that 
wild  nightmare,  it  will  seem  improbable  and  untrue. 
Indeed,  I  think  the  central  fact  was  untrue,  except  as  a 
subjective  reality  in  the  minds  of  Brand  and  Elsa. 

It  happened  when  they  were  sitting  alone  in  Elizabeth 
von  Detmold's  drawing-room.  I  fancy  they  must  have 
been  embracing  each  other,  though  Brand  did  not  tell 
me  that.  Anyhow,  Elsa  put  her  hand  into  his  breast- 
pocket and  in  a  playful  way  pulled  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"May  I  open  it  ?"  she  asked. 

But  she  did  not  open  it.     She  stared  at  a  little  mono- 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES  235. 

gram  on  its  cover,  and  then  began  to  tremble  so  that 
Brand  was  scared. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said. 

Elsa  let  the  cigarette-case  drop  on  to  the  carpet. 

"That  box!"  she  said  in  an  agonised  voice.  "Where 
did  you  find  it?" 

Brand  remembered  where  he  had  found  it,  though  he 
had  not  given  a  thought  to  it  for  more  than  two  years. 
He  had  found  it  on  a  night  in  No  Man's  Land  out  by 
the  Bois  Frangais,  near  Fricourt  He  had  been  lying 
out  there  on  the  lip  of  a  mine-crater  below  a  hummock 
of  white  chalk.  Just  before  dawn  a  German  patrol  had 
crept  out  and  he  had  shot  at  them.  One  man  dropped 
quite  close  to  where  Brand  lay.  After  an  hour,  when 
dawn  came  with  a  thick  white  mist  rising  from  the  moist 
earth,  Brand  crawled  over  to  the  body  and  cut  off  its 
shoulder-straps  for  identification.  It  was  the  body  of 
a  young  man,  almost  a  boy,  and  Brand  saw,  with  a  thrill 
of  satisfaction  (it  was  his  "tiger"  time),  that  he  had 
shot  him  clean  through  the  heart.  A  good  shot  in  the 
twilight  of  the  dawn!  He  thrust  his  hands  into  the 
man's  pockets  for  papers,  and  found  his  pay-book  and 
some  letters,  and  a  cigarette-case.  With  these  he 
crawled  back  into  his  own  trench.  He  remembered  read- 
ing the  letters.  One  was  from  the  boy's  sister  lamenting1 
the  length  of  the  war,  describing  the  growing  hunger 
of  civilians  in  Germany  and  saying  how  she  prayed 
every  night  for  her  brother's  safety,  and  for  peace.  He 
had  read  thousands  of  German  letters,  as  an  Intelligence 
officer  afterwards,  but  he  remembered  those  because  of 
the  night's  adventure.  He  had  handed  them  over  to 
the  adjutant,  for  headquarters,  and  had  kept  the 
cigarette-case,  having  lost  his  own.  It  had  the  mono- 
gram of  H.  v.  K.  He  had  never  thought  about  it  from 


236  WOUNDED  SOULS 

that  time  to  this.  Now  he  thought  about  it  with  an 
intensity  of  remembrance. 

Brand  told  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  that  he  had  found 
the  box  in  No  Man's  Land. 

"It  is  my  brother  Heinrich's,"  she  cried.  "I  gave  it 
to  him." 

She  drew  back,  shivering,  from  the  cigarette-case — or 
was  it  from  Brand?  When  she  spoke  next  it  was  in  a 
whisper. 

"Did  you  kill  him?" 

Brand  lied  to  her,  and  she  knew  he  was  lying.  She 
wept  bitterly  and  when  Brand  kissed  her  she  was  cold, 
and  fainted  in  his  arms. 

That  was  Brand's  story,  and  it  was  incredible.  Even 
now  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  such  a  coincidence  could 
not  have  happened.  There  is  plenty  of  room  for  doubt 
about  that  cigarette-case.  It  was  of  a  usual  pattern, 
plain,  with  a  wreath  engraved  round  a  monogram.  That 
monogram  H.  v.  K.  was  astonishing  in  relation  to  Elsa 
von  Kreuzenach,  but  there  are  thousands  of  Germans, 
I  imagine,  with  the  same  initials.  I  know  two,  Hermann 
von  Kranitz  and  Hans  von  Kurtheim.  In  a  German 
directory  I  have  found  many  other  names  with  those 
initials.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  Brand  should  have  gone 
straight  to  the  house  of  that  boy  whom  he  had  killed 
in  No  Man's  Land. 

He  believed  it,  and  Elsa  was  sure  of  it.  That  was 
the  tragedy,  and  the  ghost  of  the  girl's  dead  brother 
stood  between  them  now. 

For  an  hour  or  more,  he  paced  up  and  down  my  room 
in  an  agony  of  mind,  and  none  of  my  arguments  would 
convince  him  or  comfort  him. 

Several  times  he  spoke  one  sentence  which  puzzled  me. 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  he  said.  "It  makes  no  dif- 
ference." 


THROUGH  HOSTILE  GATES        .     237 

I  think  he  meant  that  it  made  no  difference  to  his  love 
or  purpose.  When  one  thinks  over  this  incident  one  is 
inclined  to  agree  with  that  view.  He  was  no  more  guilty 
in  killing  Elsa's  brother,  if  he  did,  than  in  killing  any 
other  German.  If  their  love  were  strong  enough  to 
cross  over  fields  of  dead,  the  fact  that  Elsa's  brother  lay 
there,  shot  by  Brand's  bullet,  made,  as  he  said,  "no  dif- 
ference." It  only  brought  home  more  closely  to  two 
poor  individuals  the  meaning  of  that, world-tragedy. 

Elsa,  after  her  first  shock  of  horror,  argued  that  too, 
and  at  the  beginning  of  March  Brand  and  she  stood  at 
the  altar  together,  in  a  church  at  the  end  of  the  Hohen- 
zollern  ring,  and  were  made  man  and  wife. 

At  the  ceremony  there  were  present  Elizabeth  von 
Detmold,  Franz  von  Kreuzenach,  Dr.  Small,  and  myself 
as  Brand's  best  man.  There  was,  I  think,  another  pres- 
ence there,  visible  only  to  the  minds  of  Brand  and  Elsa, 
and,  strangely  enough,  to  mine.  As  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom stood  together  before  the  priest  I  had  a  most 
uncomfortable  vision  of  the  dead  body  of  a  German 
boy  lying  on  the  altar  beyond  them,  huddled  up  as  I 
had  seen  many  grey  figures  in  the  mud  of  Flanders  and 
Picardy.  This  idea  was,  of  course,  due  to  that  war- 
neurosis  which,  as  Dr.  Small  said,  was  the  malady  of  the 
world.  I  think  at  one  moment  of  the  service  Elsa  and 
Brand  felt  some  cold  touch  upon  them,  for  they  both 
looked  round  in  a  startled  way.  It  may  have  been  a 
draught  stealing  through  the  aisle. 

We  had  tea  at  Elizabeth  von  Detmold's  house,  and 
Brand  and  his  wife  were  wonderfully  self -controlled. 
They  could  not  be  happy  beyond  the  sense  of  a  spiritual 
union,  because  Brand  had  been  ordered  by  telegram  to 
report  at  the  War  Oflfice  in  London,  and  was  leaving 
Cologne  at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  while  Elsa  was 
going  home  to  her  parents,  who  were  ignorant  of  her 


238  WOUNDED  SOULS 

marriage.  Brand's  recall,  I  am  convinced,  had  been 
engineered  by  his  father,  who  was  determined  to  take 
any  step  to  prevent  his  son's  marriage  with  a  German 
girl. 

Young  Harding  was  going  with  him,  having  been 
given  his  demobilisation  papers,  and  being  desperately 
anxious,  as  I  have  told,  to  get  home.  It  was  curious 
that  Brand  should  be  his  fellow-traveller  that  night,  and 
I  thought  of  the  contrast  of  thier  journey,  one  man  going 
to  his  wife  with  eager  gladness,  the  other  man  leaving 
his  wife  after  a  few  hours  of  marriage. 

At  the  end,  poor  Elsa  clung  to  her  husband  with 
most  passionate  grief  and,  without  any  self -consciousness 
now,  because  of  the  depth  of  his  emotion,  Brand,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  tenderly  embraced  her.  She  walked 
back  bravely,  with  her  brother,  to  her  mother's  house, 
while  Brand  and  I  raced  to  the  station,  where  his  orderly 
was  waiting  with  his  kit. 

"See  you  again  soon,"  said  Brand,  gripping  my  hand. 

"Where?"  I  asked,  and  he  answered  gloomily: 

"God  knows." 

It  was  not  on  the  Rhine.  There  was  a  general  exodus 
of  all  officers  who  could  get  "demobbed"  on  any  claim 
or  pretext,  the  small  Army  of  Occupation  settled  down 
to  a  routine  life,  without  adventure,  and  the  world's  in- 
terest shifted  to  Paris,  where  the  fate  of  Europe  was 
being  settled  by  a  company  of  men  with  the  greatest 
chance  in  history.  I  became  a  wanderer  in  a  sick  world. 


BOOK  THREE:  BUILDERS  OF 
PEACE 


BOOK  THREE:  BUILDERS  OF  PEACE 


THOSE  of  us  who  had  been  in  exile  during  the  years 
of  war  and  now  returned  to  peace  found  that  Eng- 
land had  changed  in  our  absence.  We  did  not  know 
this  new  England.  We  did  not  understand  its  spirit  or 
its  people.  Nor  did  they  understand  the  men  who  came 
back  from  the  many  fronts  of  war,  by  hundreds  of 
thousands,  now  that  demobilisation  had  become  a  spate 
after  murmurings  that  were  loud  with  the  menace  of 
revolt  from  men  who  had  been  long  patient. 

These  "revenants,"  the  men  who  came  back  out  of  the 
Terror,  were  so  many  Rip  van  Winkles  (of  a  youthful 
kind,  looking  round  for  the  companions  of  their  boy- 
hood, going  to  old  places,  touching  old  stones,  sitting  by 
the  same  fireside,  but  with  a  sense  of  ghostliness.  A 
new  generation  had  arrived  since  1914.  The  children 
had  become  boys  and  girls,  the  girls  had  grown  into 
womanhood  precociously.  There  were  legions  of  "flap- 
pers" in  London  and  other  big  cities,  earning  good  wages 
in  Government  offices  and  factories,  spending  most  of 
their  money  on  the  adornment  of  their  prettiness,  self- 
reliant,  audacious,  out  for  the  fun  of  life,  and  finding  it. 
The  tragedy  of  the  war  had  not  touched  them.  It  had 
been  a  great  "lark"  to  them.  They  accepted  the  slaughter 
of  their  brothers  or  their  fathers  light-heartedly,  after 
a  few  bursts  of  tears  and  a  period  of  sentiment  in  which 

241 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

pride  was  strongest.  They  had  grown  up  to  the  belief 
that  a  soldier  is  generally  killed  or  wounded  and  that  he 
is  glad  to  take  the  risk,  or,  if  not,  ought  to  be,  as  part 
of  the  most  exciting  and  enjoyable  game  of  war.  Wo- 
men had  filled  many  of  the  jobs  which  formerly  were 
the  exclusive  possession  of  men,  and  the  men  coming 
back  looked  at  these  legions  of  women  clerks,  tram-con- 
ductors, ticket-collectors,  munition-workers,  plough-girls, 
and  motor-drivers  with  the  brooding  thought  that  they, 
the  men,  had  been  ousted  from  their  places.  A  new 
class  had  arisen  out  of  the  whirlpool  of  social  upheaval. 
The  Profiteers,  in  a  large  way  of  business,  had  prospered 
exceedingly  out  of  the  supply  and  demand  of  massacre. 
The  Profiteer's  wife  clothed  herself  in  furs  and  jewels. 
The  Profiteer's  daughters  were  dancing  by  night  and 
sleeping  by  day.  The  farmers  and  the  shop-keepers  had 
made  a  good  thing  out  of  war.  They  liked  war,  so 
long  as  they  were  untouched  by  air-raids  or  not  afflicted 
by  boys  who  came  back  blind  or  crippled.  They  had 
always  been  Optimists.  They  were  Optimists  now,  and 
claimed  a  share  in  the  merit  of  the  Victory  that  had  been 
won  by  the  glorious  watchword  of  "business  as  usual." 
They  hoped  the  terms  of  peace  would  be  merciless  upon 
the  enemy,  and  they  demanded  the  Kaiser's  head  as  a 
pleasant  sacrifice,  adding  spice  to  the  great  banquet  of 
Victory  celebrations. 

Outwardly  England  was  gay  and  prosperous  and  light- 
spirited.  It  was  only  by  getting  away  from  the  seething 
crowds  in  the  streets,  from  the  dancing  crowds  and  the 
theatre  crowds,  and  the  shopping  crowds,  that  men  came 
face  to  face  with  private  and  hidden  tragedy.  In  small 
houses,  or  big,  there  were  women  who  had  lost  their  men 
and  were  listless  and  joyless,  the  mothers  of  only  sons 
who  did  not  come  back  with  the  demobilised  tide,  and 
the  sweethearts  of  boys  who  would  never  fulfil  the 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE 

promise  that  had  given  hope  in  life  to  lonely  girlhood. 
There  was  a  New  Rich,  but  there  was  also  a  New  Poor, 
and  people  on  small  fixed  incomes  or  with  little  nest-eggs 
of  capital,  on  which  they  scraped  out  life,  found  them- 
selves reduced  to  desperate  straits  by  the  soaring  of 
prices  and  the  burden  of  taxation.  Underneath  the  sur- 
face joy  of  a  victorious  people  there  was  bitterness  to 
which  Victory  was  a  mockery,  and  a  haggard  grief  at 
the  cost  of  war  in  precious  blood.  But  the  bitterness 
smouldered  without  any  flame  of  passion,  and  grief 
nagged  at  people's  hearts  silently. 

Many  of  the  men  who  came  back  were  in  a  strange 
mood :  restless,  morbid,  neurotic.  Their  own  people 
did  not  understand  them.  They  could  not  understand 
themselves.  They  had  hated  war,  most  of  them,  but  this 
peace  seemed  flat  and  unprofitable  to  their  souls.  All 
purpose  and  meaning  seemed  suddenly  to  have  gone  out 
of  life.  Perhaps  it  was  the  narrowness  of  English 
home-life.  Men  who  had  travelled  to  far  places  of  the 
world,  who  had  seen  the  ways  of  foreign  people,  and 
had  been  part  of  a  great  drama,  found  themselves  back 
again  in  a  little  house  closed  in  and  isolated  by  the  tradi- 
tions of  English  individualism,  so  that  often  the  next- 
door  neighbour  is  a  stranger.  They  had  a  sense  of  being 
suffocated.  They  could  not  stay  indoors  with  the  old 
pleasure  in  a  pipe,  or  a  book  by  the  fireside,  or  a  chat 
with  mother  or  wife.  Often  they  would  wander  out  on 
the  chance  of  meeting  some  of  the  "old  pals,"  or  after 
a  heavy  sigh  say,  "Oh,  God!  .  .  .  let's  go  to  a  theatre 
or  a  'movie'  show!"  The  theatres  were  crammed  with 
men  seeking  distraction,  yet  bored  with  their  pleasures 
and  relapsing  into  a  deeper  moodiness  afterwards. 
Wives  complained  that  their  husbands  had  "changed." 
Their  characters  had  hardened  and  their  tempers  were 
frayed  so  that  they  were  strangely  irritable,  and  given  to 


244  WOUNDED  SOULS 

storms  of  rage  about  nothing  at  all.  It  was  frightening. 
.  .  .  There  was  an  epidemic  of  violence  and  of  horrible 
sensual  crimes  with  women-victims,  ending  often  in  sui- 
cide. There  were  mob  riots  by  demobilised  soldiers,  or 
soldiers  still  waiting  in  camps  for  demobilisation. 
Police-stations  were  stormed  and  wrecked  and  policemen 
killed  by  bodies  of  men  who  had  been  heroes  in  the  war 
and  now  fought  like  savages  against  their  fellow-citizens. 
Some  of  them  pleaded  guilty  in  court  and  made  queer 
statements  about  an  utter  ignorance  of  their  own  actions 
after  the  disorder  had  begun.  It  seemed  as  though  they 
had  returned  to  the  psychology  of  that  war  when  men, 
doped  with  rum,  or  drunk  with  excitement,  had  leapt 
over  the  parapet  and  remembered  nothing  more  of  a 
battle  until  they  found  themselves  panting  in  an  enemy 
trench,  or  lying  wounded  on  a  stretcher.  It  was  a 
dangerous  kind  of  psychology  in  civil  life. 

Labourers  back  at  work  in  factories  or  mines  or  rail- 
way-stations or  dock-yards,  after  months  or  years  of  the 
soldier-life,  did  not  return  to  their  old  conditions  or  their 
old  pay  with  diligence  and  thankfulness.  They  de- 
manded higher  wages  to  meet  the  higher  cost  of  life, 
and  after  that  a  margin  for  pleasure,  and  after  that 
shorter  hours  for  higher  pay,  and  less  work  in  shorter 
hours.  If  their  demands  were  not  granted  they  downed 
tools  and  said,  "What  about  it?"  Strikes  became  fre- 
quent and  general,  and  at  a  time  when  the  cost  of  war 
was  being  added  up  to  frightful  totals  of  debt  which 
could  only  be  reduced  by  immense  production,  the  worker 
slacked  off,  or  suspended  his  labours,  and  said,  "Who 
gets  the  profits  of  my  sweat?  ...  I  want  a  larger 
share."  He  was  not  frightened  of  a  spectre  that  was 
scaring  all  people  of  property  and  morality  in  the  West- 
ern world.  The  spectre  of  Bolshevism,  red-eyed,  drip- 
ping with  blood,  proclaiming  anarchy  as  the  new  gospel, 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  245 

did  not  cause  a  shiver  to  the  English  working-man.  He 
said,  "What  has  Russia  to  do  with  me?  I'm  English. 
I  have  fought  this  war  to  save  England,  I  have  done  the 
job;  now  then,  where's  my  reward?" 

Men  who  looked  round  for  a  living  while  they  lived 
on  an  unemployment  dole  that  was  not  good  enough  for 
their  new  desires,  became  sullen  when  they  returned 
home  night  after  night  with  the  same  old  story  of 
"Nothing  doing."  The  women  were  still  clinging  to 
their  jobs.  They  had  earned  their  independence  by  good 
work  in  war-time.  They  hated  the  thought  of  going 
back  to  little  homes  to  be  household  drudges,  dependent 
for  pocket-money  on  father  and  brothers.  They  had  not 
only  tasted  liberty.  They  had  made  themselves  free  of 
the  large  world.  They  had  proved  their  quality  and 
strength.  They  were  as  good  as  men,  and  mostly  better. 
Why  should  they  slink  back  to  the  little  narrow  rut  of 
life?  But  the  men  said,  "Get  out.  Give  us  back  our 
jobs." 

It  was  hard  on  the  officer  boys — hardest  of  all  on  them. 
They  had  gone  straight  from  school  to  the  war,  and  had 
commanded  men  twice  as  old  as  themselves,  and  drawn 
good  pay  for  pocket-money  as  first  lieutenants,  captains, 
even  majors  of  air-squadrons  and  tank  battalions. 
,They  had  gained  immense  experience  in  the  arts  and 
crafts  of  war,  and  that  erperience  was  utterly  useless  in 
peace. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  said  the  heads  of  prosperous 
businesses  who  had  been  out  to  "beat  the  Boche,"  even 
though  they  sacrificed  their  only  sons,  or  all  their  sons 
(with  heroic  courage!).  "You  have  been  wasting  your 
time.  You  have  no  qualifications  whatever  for  a  junior 
clerkship  in  this  office.  On  the  contrary,  you  have 
probably  contracted  habits  of  idleness  and  inaccuracy 
which  would  cause  a  lot  of  trouble.  This  vacancy  is 


246  WOUNDED  SOULS 

being  filled  by  a  lad  who  has  not  been  vitiated  by  military 
life,  and  has  nothing  to  unlearn.  Good  morning!" 

And  the  young  officers,  after  a  statement  like  that,  went 
home  with  swear-words  learnt  in  Flanders,  and  said, 
"That's  the  reward  of  patriotism,  eh?  Well,  we  seem 
to  have  been  fooled,  pretty  badly.  Next  time  we  shan't 
be  so  keen  to  strew  the  fields  of  death  with  our  fresh 
little  corpses." 

These  words,  all  this  murmur  from  below,  did  not 
reach  those  who  sat  in  High  Places.  They  were  won- 
derfully complacent,  except  when  outbreaks  of  violence, 
or  the  cessation  of  labour,  shocked  them  with  a  sense 
of  danger.  They  arranged  Peace  celebrations  before  the 
Peace,  Victory  marches  when  the  fruits  of  Victory  were 
as  bitter  as  Dead  Sea  fruit  in  the  mouths  of  those  who 
saw  the  ruin  of  the  world;  and  round  a  Council  Table 
in  Paris  statesmen  of  Europe  abandoned  all  the  ideals* 
for  which  the  war  had  been  fought  by  humble  men,  and 
killed  the  hopes  of  all  those  who  had  looked  to  them 
as  the  founders  of  a  new  era  of  humanity  and  common- 
sense. 


II 

IT  was  when  the  Peace  Treaty  had  been  signed  but 
not  ratified  by  the  representatives  of  Germany  and 
Austria  that  I  met  some  of  the  friends  with  whom  I  had 
travelled  along  many  roads  of  war  or  had  met  in  scenes 
which  already  seemed  far  back  in  history.  In  London, 
after  a  journey  to  America,  I  came  again  in  touch  with 
young  Harding,  whom  I  had  seen  last  on  his  way  home 
to  his  pretty  wife,  who  had  fretted  at  his  long  absence, 
and  Charles  Fortune,  whose  sense  of  humour  had  made 
me  laugh  so  often  in  the  time  of  tragedy.  Those  were 
chance  meetings  in  the  eddies  of  the  great  whirlpool  of 
London  life,  as  I  saw  other  faces,  strange  for  a  moment 
or  two,  until  the  difference  between  a  field-cap  and  a 
bowler  hat,  a  uniform  and  civil  clothes,  was  wiped  out 
by  a  look  of  recognition,  and  the  sound  of  a  remem- 
bered voice. 

Not  by  chance  but  by  a  friendship  which  had  followed 
me  across  the  world  with  written  words,  I  found  myself 
once  more  in  the  company  of  Wickham  Brand,  and  with 
him  went  again  to  spend  some  evenings  with  Eileen 
O'Connor,  who  was  now  home  in  Kensington,  after  that 
grim  drama  which  she  had  played  so  long  in  Lille. 

With  "Daddy"  Small  I  had  been  linked  up  by  a  lucky 
chain  of  coincidences  which  had  taken  us  both  to  New 
York  at  the  same  time  and  brought  us  back  to  Europe 
on  the  same  boat,  which  was  the  White  Star  liner  Lap- 
land. 

My  chance  meeting  with  Harding  led  to  a  renewal  of 
friendship  which  was  more  of  his  seeking  than  mine, 

247 


248  WOUNDED  SOULS 

though  I  liked  him  a  good  deal.  But  he  seemed  to 
need  me,  craving  sympathy  which  I  gave  with  sincerity, 
and  companionship,  which  I  could  not  give  so  easily, 
being  a  busy  man. 

It  was  on  the  night  when  London  went  mad,  because1 
of  Peace,  though  not  so  mad,  I  was  told,  as  on  the  night 
of  Armistice.  It  all  seemed  mad  to  me  when  I  was, 
carried  like  a  straw  in  a  raging  torrent  of  life  which 
poured  down  the  Strand,  swirled  round  Trafalgar 
Square,  and  choked  all  channels  westwards  and  east- 
wards of  Piccadilly  Circus.  The  spirit  of  London  had 
broken  bounds.  It  came  wildly  from  mean  streets  in 
the  slum  quarters  to  the  heart  of  the  West  End.  The 
worst  elements  had  surged  up  and  mingled  with  the 
middle-class  folk  and  those  who  claim  exclusiveness  by 
the  power  of  wealth.  In  ignorance  that  all  barriers  of 
caste  were  to  be  broken  that  night,  "society"  women,  as 
they  are  called,  rather  insolent  in  their  public  display  of 
white  shoulders,  and  diamonds,  and  furs,  set  out  in 
motor-cars  for  hotels  and  restaurants  which  had 
arranged,  Peace  dinners,  and  Peace  dances.  Some  of 
them,  I  saw,  were  unaccompanied  by  their  own  men, 
whom  they  were  to  meet  later,  but  the  vacant  seats  in 
their  open  cars  were  quickly  filled  by  soldiers,  seamen, 
or  merry  devils  in  civil  clothes  who  climbed  over  the 
backs  of  the  cars  when  they  were  brought  to  a  standstill 
in  the  crush  of  vast  crowds.  Those  uninvited  guests, 
some  of  them  wearing  women's  bonnets,  most  of  them, 
fluttering  with  flags  pinned  to  their  coats,  all  of  them 
provided  with  noise-making  instruments,  behaved  with 
ironical  humour  to  the  pretty  ladies,  touched  their  coiled 
hair  with  "ticklers,"  blew  loud  blasts  on  their  toy  trum- 
pets, delivered  cockney  orations  to  them  for  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  crowds  below.  Some  of  the  pretty  ladies 
accepted  the  situation  with  courage  and  good-humour, 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  249 

laughing  with  shrill  mirth  at  their  grotesque  companions. 
Others  were  frightened,  and  angry.  I  saw  one  girl  try 
to  beat  off  the  hands  of  men  clambering  about  her  car. 
They  swarmed  into  it  and  paid  no  heed  to  her  cries  of 
protest.  .  .  . 

All  the  flappers  were  out  in  the  Strand,  and  in  Trafal- 
gar Square,  and  many  streets.  They  were  factory-girls, 
shop-girls,  office-girls,  and  their  eyes  were  alight  with 
adventure  and  a  pagan  ecstasy.  Men  teased  them  as 
they  passed  with  the  long  "ticklers,"  and  they,  armed 
with  the  same  weapon,  fought  duels  with  these  aggres- 
sors, and  then  fled,  and  were  pursued  into  the  darkness 
of  side-streets,  where  they  were  caught  and  kissed.  Sol- 
diers in  uniform,  English,  Scots,  Canadians,  Australians, 
came  lurching  along  in  gangs,  arm-in-arm,  then  mingled 
with  the  girls,  changed  head-gear  with  them,  struggled 
and  danced  and  stampeded  with  them.  Seamen,  three 
sheets  in  the  wind,  steered  an  uneven  course  through* 
this  turbulent  sea  of  life,  roaring  out  choruses,  until 
each  man  had  found  a  maid  for  the  dance  of  joy. 

London  was  a  dark  forest  with  nymphs  and  satyrs  at 
,play  in  the  glades  and  Pan  stamping  his  hoofs  like  a 
giddy  goat.  All  the  passions  let  loose  by  war,  the  break- 
ing-down of  old  restraints,  the  gladness  of  youth  at  es- 
cape from  death,  provided  the  motive-power,  unconscious 
and  primitive,  behind  this  Carnival  of  the  London 
crowds. 

From  some  church  a  procession  came  into  Trafalgar 
Square,  tryipg  to  make  a  pathway  through  the  multitude. 
A  golden  Cross  was  raised  high  and  clergymen  in  sur- 
plices,-.with  acolytes  and  faithful  women,  came  chanting 
solemn  words.  The  crowd  closed  about  them.  A 
mirthful  sailor  teased  the  singing  women  with  his  tickler. 
Loud  guffaws,  shrill  laughter,  were,  in  the  wake  of  the 
procession,  though  some  men  stood  to  attention  as  the 


250  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Cross  passed,  and  others  bared  their  heads  and  some- 
thing hushed  the  pagan  riot  a  moment. 

At  the  windows  in  Pall  Mall  men  in  evening  clothes 
who  had  been  officers  in  the  world-war,  sat  by  the  pretty 
women  who  had  driven  through  the  crowds,  looking  out 
on  the  noisy  pageant  of  the  street.  A  piano-organ  was 
playing,  and  two  young  soldiers  danced  with  ridiculous 
grace,  imitating  the  elegance  and  languorous  ecstasy  of 
society  dancers.  One  of  them  wore  a  woman's  hat  and 
skirt  and  was  wonderfully  comic. 

I  stood  watching  them,  a  little  stupefied  by  all  the 
noise  and  tumult  of  this  "Peace"  night,  and  with  a  sense 
of  tragic  irony,  remembering  millions  of  boys  who  lay 
dead  in  quiet  fields  and  the  agony  of  many  peoples  in 
Europe.  It  was  then  that  I  saw  young  Harding.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  club  window  just  above  the  dancing 
soldiers,  and  looking  out  with  a  grave  and  rather  woe- 
begone face,  remarkable  in  contrast  with  the  laughing 
faces  of  fellow-clubmen  and  their  women.  I  recognised 
him  after  a  moment's  query  in  my  mind,  and  said, 
"Hulloa,  Harding!" 

He  stared  at  me  and  I  saw  the  sudden  dawning  of  re- 
membrance. 

"Come  in,"  he  answered.  "I  had  no  idea  you  were 
back  again!" 

So  I  went  into  his  club  and  sat  by  his  side  at  the  open' 
window,  glad  of  this  retreat  from  the  pressure  and 
tumult  of  the  mob  below. 

He  talked  conventionally  for  a  little  while,  and  asked 
me  whether  I  had  had  "a  good  time"  in  the  States,  and 
whether  I  was  busy,  and  why  the  Americans  seemed  so 
hostile  to  President  Wilson.  I  understood  from  him 
that  he  approved  of  the  Peace  Tre'aty  and  was  glad  that 
Germany  and  Austria  had  been  "wiped  off  the  map"  as 
far  as  it  was  humanly  possible. 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  251 

We  chatted  like  that  for  what  I  suppose  was  some- 
thing more  than  half-an-hour,  while  we  looked  out  upon 
the  seething  multitude  in  the  street  below,  when  suddenly 
the  boy's  mask  fell  from  him,  so  abruptly,  and  with  such 
a  naked  revelation  of  a  soul  in  anguish,  that  concealment 
was  impossible. 

I  saw  him  lean  forward  with  his  elbows  on  the  win- 
dow-sill and  his  hands  clenching  an  iron  bar.  His  face 
had  become  like  his  shirt  front,  almost  as  white  as  that. 
A  kind  of  groan  came  from  him,  like  that  of  a  man 
badly  wounded.  The  people  on  either  side  of  him  turned 
to  look  at  him,  but  he  was  unconscious  of  them,  as  he 
stared  at  something  in  the  street.  I  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  his  eyes  and  guessed  that  he  was  looking  at  a 
motor-car  which  had  been  stopped  by  the  crowd  who 
were  surging  about  it.  It  was  an  open  car  and  inside 
were  a  young  man  and  woman  in  fancy-dress  as  Pierrot 
and  Columbine.  They  were  standing  up  and  pelting  the 
crowd  with  long  coloured  streamers,  which  the  mob 
caught,  and  tossed  back  again,  with  shouts  of  laughter. 
The  girl  was  very  pretty,  with  an  audacious  little  face 
beneath  the  white  sugar-loaf  cap,  and  her  eyes  were  on 
fire.  Her  companion  was  a  merry-eyed  fellow,  clean- 
shaven and  ruddy- faced  (for  he  had  not  chalked  it  to 
Pierrot's  whiteness),  and  looked  to  me  typical  of  a  naval 
officer  or  one  of  our  young  air  men.  I  could  see 
nothing  to  groan  about  in  such  a  sight. 

"What's  wrong,  Harding?" 

I  touched  him  on  the  elbow,  for  I  did  not  like  him  to 
give  himself  away  before  the  other  company  in  the 
window-seat. 

He  rose  at  once,  and  walked,  in  a  stumbling  way, 
across  the  room,  while  I  followed.  The  room  was 
empty  where  we  stood. 

"Aren't  you  well?"  I  asked. 


252  WOUNDED  SOULS 

He  laughed  in  a  most  tragic  way. 

"Did  you  see  those  two  in  the  car?  Pierrot  and 
Columbine  ?" 

I  nodded. 

"Columbine  was  my  wife.  Pierrot  is  now  her  husband. 
Funny,  isn't  it?" 

My  memory  went  back  to  that  night  in  Cologne  less 
than  six  months  before,  when  Harding  had  asked  me 
to  use  my  influence  to  get  him  demobilised,  and  as  an 
explanation  of  his  motive  opened  his  pocket-book  and 
showed  me  the  photograph  of  a  pretty  girl,  and  said, 
"That's  my  wife  ...  she  is  hipped  because  I  have  been 
away  so  long."  I  felt  enormously  sorry  for  him. 

"Come  and  have  a  whiskey  in  the  smoke-room,"  said 
Harding.  "I'd  like  a  yarn,  and  we  shall  be  alone." 

I  did  not  want  him  to  tell  me  his  tale.  I  was  tired 
of  tragic  history.  But  I  could  not  refuse.  The  boy 
wanted  to  unburden  himself.  I  could  see  that,  though 
for  quite  a  time  after  we  had  sat  on  each  side  of  the, 
wood  fire,  he  hesitated  in  getting  to  the  point  and  in- 
dulged in  small-talk  about  his  favourite  brand  of  cigars, 
and  my  evil  habit  of  smoking  the  worst  kind  of 
cigarettes. 

Suddenly  we  plunged  into  what  was  the  icy  waters 
of  his  real  thoughts. 

"About  my  wife.  .  .  .  I'd  like  you  to  know.  Others 
will  tell  you,  and  you'd  have  heard  already  if  you  hadn't 
been  away  so  long.  But  I  think  you  would  get  a  wrong 
notion  from  others.  The  fact  is,  I  don't  blame  Evelyn. 
I  would  like  you  to  understand  that.  I  blame  the  Ger- 
mans for  everything." 

"The  Germans?" 

That  was  a  strange  statement,  and  I  could  not  see 
the  drift  of  it  until  he  explained  his  meaning. 

"The  Germans  made  the  war,  and  the  war  took  me 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  253 

away  from  Evelyn,  just  after  our  marriage.  .  .  .  Imag- 
ine the  situation.  A  kid  of  a  girl,  wanting  to  be  merry 
and  bright,  eager  for  the  fun  of  life  and  all  that,  left 
alone  in  a  big  old  house  in  the  country,  or  when  she 
got  fed  up  with  that,  in  a  big  gloomy  house  in  town. 
She  got  fed  up  with  both  pretty  quick.  I  used  to  get 
letters  from  her — every  day  for  a  while — and  she  used 
to  say  in  every  one  of  them,  Tm  fed  up  like  Billy-O.' 
That  was  her  way  of  putting  it,  don't  you  know,  and  I 
got  scared.  But  what  could  I  do — out  there — except 
write  and  tell  her  to  try  and  get  busy  with  something? 
Well,  she  got  busy  all  right!" 

Harding  laughed  again  in  his  woful  way,  which  was 
not  good  to  hear.  Then  he  became  angry  and  passion- 
ate, and  told  me  it  was  all  the  fault  of  "those  damned 
women." 

I  asked  him  what  "damned  women,"  and  he  launched 
into  a  wild  denunciation  of  a  certain  set  of  women — 
most  of  the  names  he  mentioned  were  familiar  to  me 
from  full-length  portraits  in  the  Sketch  and  Tatler 
—who  had  spent  the  years  of  war  in  organising  fancy 
bazaars,  charity  matinees,  private  theatricals  for  Red 
Cross  funds — "and  all  that,"  as  Harding  remarked  in 
his  familiar  phrase.  He  said  they  were  rotten  all 
through,  utterly  immoral,  perfectly  callous  of  all  the 
death  and  tragedy  about  them,  except  in  a  false,  hyster- 
ical way  at  times. 

"They  were  ghouls,"  he  said. 

Many  of  them  had  married  twice,  three  times,  even 
more  than  that,  before  the  boys  who  were  killed  were 
cold  in  their  graves.  Yet  those  were  the  best,  with  a 
certain  respect  for  convention.  Others  had  just  let 
themselves  go.  They  had  played  the  devil  with  any  fel- 
low who  came  within  their  circle  of  enticement,  if  he 


254.  WOUNDED  SOULS 

had  a  bit  of  money,  or  could  dance  well,  or  oiled  his  hair 
in  the  right  way. 

"They  corrupted  English  society,"  said  Harding, 
"while  they  smiled,  and  danced,  and  dressed  in  fancy 
clothes,  and  posed  for  their  photos  in  the  papers.  It 
was  they  who  corrupted  Evelyn,  when  the  poor  kid  was 
fighting  up  against  her  loneliness,  and  very  hipped,  and 
all  that." 

"Who  was  the  man?"  I  asked,  and  Harding  hesitated 
before  he  told  me.  It  was  with  frightful  irony  that  he 
answered. 

"The  usual  man  in  most  of  these  cases.  The  man 
who  is  always  one's  best  pal.  Damn  him !" 

Harding  seemed  to  repent  of  that  curse,  at  least  his 
next  words  were  strangely  inconsistent. 

"Mind  you,  I  don't  blame  him,  either.  It  was  I  who 
sent  him  to  Evelyn.  He  was  in  the  Dragoons  with  me, 
and  when  he  went  home  on  leave  I  said,  'Go  and  cheei 
up  my  little  wife,  old  man.  Take  her  to  a  theatre  o» 
two,  and  all  that.  She's  devilish  lonely/  Needless  to 
say,  he  fell  in  love  with  her.  I  might  have  known  it. 
As  for  Evelyn,  she  was  immensely  taken  with  young 
Dick.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  humourist  and  made  her  laugh. 
Laughter  was  a  devilish  good  thing  in  war-time.  That 
was  where  Dick  had  his  pull.  I  might  have  known  that! 
I  was  a  chuckle-headed  idiot." 

The  end  of  the  story  was  abrupt,  and  at  the  time  I 
found  it  hard  to  find  extenuating  circumstances  in  the 
guilt  of  the  girl  who  had  smashed  this  boy  Harding. 
She  lied  to  him  up  to  the  very  moment  of  his  demobilisa- 
tion— at  least,  she  gave  him  no  clue  to  her  purpose  until 
she  hit  him,  as  it  were,  full  in  the  face  with  a  mortal 
blow  to  his  happiness. 

He  had  sent  her  a  wire  with  the  one  word  "Demo- 
bilised," and  then  had  taken  the  next  train  back,  and  a  cab 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  255 

from  Charing  Cross  to  that  house  of  his  at  Rutland  Gate. 

"Is  the  mistress  well  ?"  he  had  asked  one  of  the  maids, 
when  his  kit  was  bundled  into  the  hall. 

"The  mistress  is  out,  sir,"  said  the  maid,  and  he  re- 
membered afterwards  that  she  looked  queerly  at  him, 
with  a  kind  of  pity. 

There  was  the  usual  note  waiting  for  him.  Evelyn 
was  "very  sorry."  She  hated  causing  her  husband  the 
grief  she  knew  he  would  feel,  but  she  and  Dick  could 
not  do  without  each  other.  The  war  had  altered  every- 
thing, and  many  wives  to  many  husbands.  She  hoped 
Harding  would  be  happy  after  a  bit.  .  .  . 

Harding  was  not  happy.  When  he  read  that  note  he 
went  a  little  mad,  and  roamed  round  London  with  an 
automatic  pistol,  determined  to  kill  his  former  friend  if 
he  could  set  eyes  on  him.  Fortunately,  he  did  not  find 
him.  Evelyn  and  Dick  had  gone  off  to  a  village  in 
Devonshire,  and  after  three  days  with  murder  in  his 
heart  Harding  had  been  very  ill,  and  had  gone  into  a 
nursing-home.  There  in  his  weakness  he  had,  he  told 
me,  "thought  things  out."  The  result  of  his  meditations 
'amounted  to  no  more  than  the  watchword  of  many  peo- 
ple in  years  of  misery: 

"C'est  la  guerre!" 

It  was  the  war  which  had  caused  his  tragedy.  It  had 
put  too  great  a  strain  on  human  nature,  or  at  least  on 
human  nerves  and  morals.  It  had  broken  down  the  con- 
ventions and  traditions  of  civilised  life.  The  Germans 
had  not  only  destroyed  many  towns  and  villages,  but 
many  homes  and  hearts  far  from  the  firing-line.  They 
had  let  the  devil  loose. 

"Quite  a  number  of  my  pals,"  said  Harding,  "are  in 
the  same  boat  with  me.  They  either  couldn't  stick  to 
their  wives,  or  their  wives  couldn't  stick  them.  It  gives 
one  a  sense  of  companionship  \" 


256  WOUNDED  SOULS 

He  smiled  in  a  melancholy  way,  but  then  confessed  to 
loneliness — so  many  of  his  real  pals  had  gone  West — 
and  asked  whether  he  could  call  on  me  now  and  then.  It 
was  for  that  reason  that  he  came  to  my  house  fairly 
often,  and  sometimes  Fortune,  who  came  too  at  times, 
made  him  laugh,  as  in  the  old  days. 


Ill 

FORTUNE  and  I  met  also  in  a  crowd,  but  indoors. 
Brand  and  Eileen  O'Connor  were  both  to  be  at  one 
of  the  evening  parties  which  assembled  every  now  and 
then  in  a  flat  at  Chelsea  belonging  to  Susy  Whincop, 
designer  of  stained-glass,  driver  of  ambulances  for  the 
Scottish  Women's  Convoy,  and  sympathetic  friend,  be- 
fore the  war,  of  any  ardent  soul  who  grew  long  hair 
if  a  man,  short  hair  if  a  woman,  and  had  some  special 
scheme,  philosophy,  or  inspiration  for  the  welfare  of 
humanity. 

I  had  known  Susy  and  her  set  in  the  old  days.  They 
were  the  minor  intellectuals  of  London,  and  I  had  por- 
trayed some  of  them  in  a  novel  called  "Intellectual  Man- 
sions," which  they  did  not  like,  though  I  loved  them 
all.  They  wrote  little  poems,  painted  little  pictures,  pro- 
duced little  plays,  and  talked  about  all  subjects  under 
heaven,  with  light-hearted  humour,  an  arrogance  to- 
wards popular  ideas,  and  a  quick  acceptance  of  the  new, 
the  unusual  and  the  revolutionary,  in  art  and  thought. 
Into  their  way  of  life  war  crashed  suddenly  with  its 
thunder  notes  of  terror.  All  that  they  had  lived  for 
seemed  to  be  destroyed,  and  all  their  ideals  overthrown. 
They  had  believed  in  beauty,  and  it  was  flung  into  the 
mud  and  bespattered  with  blood,  and  buried  beneath  the 
•ugly  monsters  of  war's  idolatry.  They  had  been  devo- 
tees of  liberty,  and  were  made  slaves  of  the  drill-sergeant 
and  other  instruments  of  martial  law.  They  had  been 
enemies  of  brutality,  cruelty,  violence,  but  all  human 
effort  now  was  for  the  slaughter  of  men,  and  the  hero 

257 


258  WOUNDED  SOULS 

was  he  who  Killed  most,  with  bayonet  or  bomb.  Their 
pretty  verses  were  made  of  no  account.  Their  impres- 
sionistic paintings  were  not  so  useful  as  the  camouflage 
of  tin  huts.  Their  little  plays  were  but  feeble  drama  to 
that  which  now  was  played  out  on  the  world's  stage  to 
the  roar  of  guns  and  the  march  of  armies.  They  went 
into  the  tumult  and  fury  of  it  all,  and  were  lost.  I  met 
some  of  them,  like  Fortune  and  Brand,  in  odd  places. 
Many  of  them  died  in  the  dirty  ditches.  Some  of  them 
wrote  poems  before  they  died,  stronger  than  their  work 
before  the  war,  with  a  noble  despair,  or  the  exaltation  of 
sacrifice.  Others  gave  no  sign  of  their  previous  life,  and 
were  just  absorbed  into  the  ranks — ants  in  these  legions 
of  soldier-ants.  Now  those  who  had  escaped  with  life 
were  coming  back  to  their  old  haunts,  trying  to  pick  up 
old  threads,  getting  back,  if  they  could,  to  the  old  ways 
of  work,  hoping  for  a  new  inspiration  out  of  immense 
experience,  but  not  yet  finding  it. 

In  Susy  Whincop's  flat  some  of  them  had  gathered 
when  I  went  there,  and  when  I  looked  round  upon  them, 
seeing  here  and  there  vaguely-remembered  faces,  I  was 
conscious  of  a  change  that  had  overtaken  them,  and, 
with  a  shock,  wondered  whether  I  too  had  altered  so 
much  in  those  five  years.  I  recognised  Peter  Hallam, 
whom  I  had  known  as  a  boy  just  down  from  Oxford, 
with  a  genius  (in  a  small  way)  for  satirical  verse,  and 
a  talent  for  passionate  lyrics  of  a  morbid  and  erotic 
type.  Yes,  it  was  certainly  Peter,  though  his  face  had 
hardened  and  he  had  cropped  his  hair  short  and  walked 
with  one  leg  stiff. 

He  was  talking  to  a  girl  with  bobbed  hair — it  was 
Jennie  Southcombe,  who  had  been  one  of  the  heroines 
of  the  Serbian  retreat,  according  to  accounts  of  news- 
paper-correspondents. 

"My  battery,"  said  Peter,  "plugged  into  old  Fritz  with 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  259 

open  sights  for  four  hours.     We  just  mowed  'em  down." 

Another  face  rang  a  little  bell  in  my  memory.  Surely 
that  was  Alfred  Lyon,  the  Futurist  painter?  No,  it 
could  not  be,  for  Lyon  had  dressed  like  an  apache  and 
this  man  was  in  conventional  evening  clothes  and  looked 
like  a  Brigadier  in  mufti.  Alfred  Lyon?  .  .  .  Yes, 
there  he  was,  though  he  had  lost  his  pose — cribbed  from 
Miirger's  Vie  de  Boheme — and  his  half-starved  look, 
and  the  wildness  in  his  eyes.  As  he  passed  Susy  Whin- 
cop  he  spoke  a  few  words,  which  I  overheard. 

"I've  abandoned  Futurism.  The  Present  knocked  that 
silly.  Our  little  violence,  which  shocked  Suburbia,  was 
made  ridiculous  by  the  enormous  Thing  that  smashed 
every  convention  into  a  cocked  hat.  I'm  just  going  to 
put  down  some  war-scenes — I  made  notes  in  the  trenches 
— with  that  simplicity  of  the  primitive  soul  to  which  we 
went  back  in  that  way  of  life.  The  soldier's  point  of 
view,  his  vision,  is  what  I  shall  try  for." 

"Splendid !"  said  Susy.  "Only,  don't  shrink  from  the 
abomination.  We've  got  to  make  the  world  understand 
— and  remember." 

I  felt  a  touch  on  my  sleeve,  and  a  voice  said,  "Hulloa ! 
.  .  .  Back  again?" 

I  turned  and  saw  an  oldish-young  man,  with  white 
hair  above  a  lean,  clean-shaven  face,  and  sombre  eyes. 
I  stared,  but  could  not  fix  him. 

"Don't  you  remember?"  he  said.  "Whetherall,  of  the 
State  Society." 

"Oh,  Lord,  yes!" 

I  grasped  his  hand,  and  tried  to  keep  the  startled  look 
out  of  my  eyes.  But  he  saw  it,  and  smiled. 

"Four  years  as  a  prisoner  of  the  Turk  has  altered 
me  a  bit.  This  white  hair,  eh  ?  And  I  feel  like  Rip  van 
Winkle." 


260  WOUNDED  SOULS 

He  put  into  words  something  which  I  had  been  think- 
ing since  my  arrival  in  Susy's  rooms. 

"We  are  the  revenants,  the  ghosts  who  have  come  back 
to  their  old  haunts.  We  are  pretending  that  everything 
is  the  same  as  before,  and  that  we  are  the  same.  But 
it's  all  different,  and  we  have  changed  most  of  all.  Five 
years  of  war  have  dug  their  hoofs  into  the  faces  of  most 
people  in  this  crowd.  Some  of  them  look  fifteen — 
twenty  years  older,  and  I  expect  they've  been  through 
a  century  of  experience  and  emotion." 

"What's  coming  out  of  it?"  I  asked.    "Anything  big?" 

"Not  from  us,"  said  Wetherall.  "Most  of  us  are  fin- 
ished. Our  nerves  have  gone  to  pieces,  and  our  vitality 
has  been  sapped.  We  shall  put  down  a  few  notes  of 
things  seen  and  understood.  But  it's  the  next  genera- 
tion that  will  get  the  big  vision — or  the  one  after  next." 

Then  I  was  able  to  shake  hands  with  Susy  Whincop, 
and,  as  I  have  said,  she  left  me  in  no  doubt  about  the 
change  that  four  years  of  war  had  made  to  me. 

She  held  me  at  arm's-length,  studying  my  face. 

"Soul  alive!"  she  said.  "You've  been  through  it  all 
right !  Hell's  branding-irons  have  been  busy  with  a  fair- 
faced  man." 

"As  bad  as  that?"  I  asked,  and  she  answered  very 
gravely,  "As  bad  as  that." 

She  had  hardly  changed,  except  for  a  few  streaks  of 
grey  in  her  brown  hair.  Her  low,  broad  forehead  was 
as  smooth  as  before,  her  brown  eyes  shown  with  their 
old  steady  light.  She  had  not  lost  her  sense  of  humour, 
though  she  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  blood  and  agony  and 
death. 

"How's  humanity?"  I  asked,  and  she  laughed  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  can  one  do  with  it  ?  I  thought  we  were  going 
to  catch  the  old  devil  by  the  tail  and  hold  him  fast,  but 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  261 

he's  broken  loose  again.  This  Peace !  Dear  God-!  .  .  . 
And  all  the  cruelty  and  hatred  that  have  survived  the 
massacre!  But  I  don't  despair,  even  now.  In  this 
room  there  is  enough  good-will  and  human  kindness  to 
create  a  new  world.  We're  going  to  have  a  good  try 
to  make  things  better  by-and-by. 

"Who's  your  star  to-night?"  I  asked.  "Who  is  the 
particular  Hot-Gospeller  with  a  mission  to  convert  man- 
kind?" 

"I've  several,"  said  Susy. 

She  glanced  round  the  room,  and  her  eyes  rested  on  a 
little  man  with  goggles  and  a  goatee  beard — none  other 
than  my  good  friend  Dr.  Small,  with  whom  I  had 
travelled  down  many  roads.  I  had  no  notion  that  he 
knew  Susy  or  was  to  be  here  to-night. 

"There's  one  great  soul — a  little  American  doctor 
whose  heart  is  as  big  as  humanity  itself,  and  whose  head 
is  filled  with  the  wisdom  of  the  wise." 

"I  know  him,"  I  said.     "And  I  agree  with  you." 

He  caught  our  eyes  fixed  on  him,  and  blinked  through 
his  goggles,  and  then  waved  his  hand,  and  made  his  way 
to  us. 

"Hulloa,  doc,"  I  said.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you 
know  Susy  Whincop  ?" 

"No  need,"  he  answered.  "Miss  Whincop  is  the 
golden  link  between  all  men  of  good-will." 

Susy  was  pleased  with  that.  She  patted  the  little  doc- 
tor's hand  and  said,  "Bully  for  you,  Doctor — and  may 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  wave  over  the  League  of  Nations!" 

Then  she  was  assailed  by  other  guests,  and  the  Doctor 
and  I  took  refuge  in  a  corner. 

"How's  everything?"  I  asked. 

The  doctor  was  profoundly  dejected,  and  did  not  hide 
the  gloom  that  possessed  his  soul. 

"Sonny,"  he  answered,  "we  shall  have  to  fight  with 


862  WOUNDED  SOULS 

our  backs  to  the  wall,  because  the  enemy — the  old  Devil 
— is  prevailing  against  us.  I  have  just  come  over  from 
Paris,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  what  I  saw 
during  the  Peace  Conference  has  made  me  doubt  the 
power  of  goodness  over  evil." 

"Tell  me,"  I  said. 

Daddy  Small's  story  was  not  pleasant  to  hear.  It 
was  the  story  of  the  betrayal,  one  by  one,  of  every  ideal 
for  which  simple  men  had  fought  and  died,  a  story  of 
broken  pledges,  of  hero-worship  dethroned,  and  of  great 
peoples  condemned  to  lingering  death.  The  Peace 
Treaty,  he  said,  would  break  the  heart  of  the  world  and 
prepare  the  way  for  new,  more  dreadful,  warfare. 

"How  about  Wilson?"  I  asked. 

The  little  doctor  raised  his  hands  like  a  German  crv- 
ing,  "Kamerad!" 

"Wilson  was  not  big  enough.  He  had  the  future  of 
civilisation  in  his  hands,  but  his  power  was  niched  from 
him,  and  he  never  knew  until  the  end  that  he  had  lost  it. 
He  was  like  a  simple  Gulliver  among  the  Lilliputians. 
They  tied  him  down  with  innumerable  threads  of  cotton 
while  he  slept  in  self-complacency  with  a  sense  of  right- 
eousness. He  was  slow-thinking  among  quick-witted 
people.  He  stated  a  general  principle  and  they  drafted 
out  clauses  which  seemed  to  fulfil  the  principle  while 
violating  it  in  every  detail.  They  juggled  with  facts  and 
figures  so  that  black  seemed  white  through  his  moral 
spectacles,  and  he  said  Amen  to  their  villainy,  believing 
that  God  had  been  served  by  righteousness.  Bit  by  bit 
they  broke  his  pledges  and  made  a  jigsaw  puzzle  of  them, 
so  artfully  that  he  believed  they  were  uncracked.  Little 
by  little  they  robbed  him  of  his  honour,  and  he  was  un- 
aware of  the  theft.  In  preambles  and  clause-headings 
and  interpretations  they  gave  lip-service  to  the  Fourteen 
Points  upon  which  the  Armistice  was  granted,  and  to 


which  the  Allied  Nations  were  utterly  pledged,  not  only 
to  the  Germans  and  all  enemies,  but  to  their  own  people. 
Not  one  of  those  Fourteen  Points  is  in  the  reality  of 
the  Treaty.  There  has  been  no  self-determination  of 
peoples.  Millions  have  been  transferred  into  unnatural 
boundaries.  There  have  been  no  open  covenants  openly 
arrived  at.  The  Conference  was  within  closed  doors. 
The  clauses  of  the  Peace  Treaty  were  kept  secret  from 
the  world  until  an  American  journalist  got  hold  of  a 
copy  and  sent  it  to  his  paper.  What  has  become  of  the 
equality  of  trade  conditions  and  the  removal  of  economic 
barriers  among  all  nations  consenting  to  peace  ?  Sonny, 
Europe  has  been  carved  up  by  the  spirit  of  vengeance, 
and  multitudes  of  men,  women,  and  children  have  been 
sentenced  to  death  by  starvation.  Another  militarism  is 
enthroned  above  the  ruin  of  German  militarism.  Wilson 
was  hoodwinked  into  putting  his  signature  to  a  peace  of 
injustice  which  will  lead  by  desperation  to  world  anarchy 
and  strife.  When  he  understands  what  thing  he  has 
done,  he  will  be  stricken  by  a  mortal  blow  to  his  con- 
science and  his  pride." 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  "there  is  still  hope  in  the  League  of 
Nations.  We  must  all  back  that." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"The  spirit  has  gone  out  of  it.  It  was  born  without  a 
soul.  I  believe  now  that  the  future  welfare  of  the  world 
depends  upon  a  change  of  heart  among  the  peoples,  in- 
spired by  individuals  in  all  nations  who  will  work  for 
good,  and  give  a  call  to  humanity,  indifferent  to  states- 
men, treaties  and  governments." 

"The  International  League  of  Good-will?" 

He  nodded  and  smiled. 

"Something  like  that/* 

I  remembered  a  dinner-party  in  New  York,  after  the; 
Armistice.  I  had  been  lecturing  on  the  League  of  Na- 


864  WOUNDED  SOULS 

tions  at  a  time  when  the  Peace  Treaty  was  still  unsigned, 
but  when  already  there  was  a  growing  hostility  against 
President  Wilson,  startling  in  its  intensity.  The  people 
of  the  United  States  were  still  moved  by  the  emotion 
and  idealism  with  which  they  had  roused  great  armies 
and  sent  them  to  the  fields  of  France.  Some  of  the  men 
were  returning  home  again.  I  stood  outside  a  club  in 
New  York  when  a  darky  regiment  returned  its  colours, 
and  I  heard  the  roars  of  cheering  that  followed  the 
march  of  the  negro  troops.  I  saw  Fifth  Avenue  filled 
with  triumphal  arches,  strung  across  with  jewelled 
chains,  festooned  with  flags  and  trophies  of  the  home- 
coming of  the  New  York  Division.  The  heart  of  the 
American  people  was  stirred  by  the  pride  of  its  achieve- 
ment on  the  way  to  victory  and  by  a  new  sense  of  power 
over  the  destiny  of  mankind.  But  already  there  was  a 
sense  of  anxiety  about  the  responsibilities  to  which 
Wilson  in  Europe  was  pledging  them  without  their  full 
and  free  consent.  They  were  conscious  that  their  old 
isolation  was  being  broken  down  and  that  by  ignorance 
or  rash  promise  they  might  be  drawn  into  other  Euro- 
pean adventures  which  were  no  concern  of  theirs.  They 
knew  how  little  was  their  knowledge  of  European  peo- 
ples, with  their  rivalries  and  racial  hatreds,  and  secret 
intrigues.  Their  own  destiny  as  a  free  people  might 
be  thwarted  by  being  dragged  into  the  jungle  of  that 
unknown  world.  In  any  case,  Wilson  was  playing  a 
lone  hand,  pledging  them  without  their  advice  or  agree- 
ment, subordinating  them,  it  seemed,  to  the  British  Em- 
pire with  six  votes  on  the  Council  of  the  League  to  their 
poor  one.  What  did  he  mean?  By  what  right  did  he 
do  so? 

At  every  dinner-table  these  questions  were  asked,  be- 
fore the  soup  was  drunk;  at  the  coffee  end  of  the  meal 
every  dinner-party  was  a  debating-club,  and  the  women 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  265 

joined  with  the  men  in  hot  discussion,  until  some  tactful 
soul  laughed  loudly,  and  some  hostess  led  the  way  to 
music  or  a  dance. 

The  ladies  had  just  gone  after  one  of  those  debates, 
leaving  us  to  our  cigars  and  coffee,  when  Daddy  Small 
made  a  proposition  which  startled  me  at  the  time. 

"See  here,"  he  said  to  his  host  and  the  other  men. 
"Out  of  this  discussion  one  thing  stands  clear  and 
straight.  It  is  that  in  this  room,  now,  at  this  table,  are 
men  of  intellect — American  and  English — men  of  good- 
will towards  mankind,  men  of  power  in  one  way  or  an- 
other, who  agree  that  whatever  happens  there  must  be 
eternal  friendship  between  England  and  the  United 
States." 

"Sure!"  said  a  chorus  of  voices. 

"In  other  countries  there  are  men  with  the  same  ideals 
as  ourselves — peace,  justice  between  men  and  nations,  a 
hatred  of  cruelty,  pity  for  women  and  children,  charity, 
and  truth.  Is  that  agreed?" 

"Sure!"  said  the  other  guests. 

They  were  mostly  business  men,  well-to-do,  but  not 
of  the  "millionaire"  class,  with  here  and  there  a  writing- 
man,  an  artist  and,  as  I  remember,  a  clergyman. 

"I  am  going  to  be  a  commercial  traveller  in  charity," 
said  the  little  doctor.  "I  am  going  across  the  frontiers 
to  collect  clients  for  an  international  society  of  Good-will. 
I  propose  to  establish  a  branch  at  this  table." 

The  suggestion  was  received  with  laughter  by  some 
of  the  men,  but,  as  I  saw,  with  gravity  by  others. 

"What  would  be  the  responsibilities,  Doctor?  Do  you 
want  money?" 

This  was  from  the  manager  of  an  American  railroad. 

"We  shall  want  a  bit,"  said  the  doctor.  "Not  much. 
Enough  for  stamps  and  occasional  booklets  and  type- 
writing. The  chief  responsibility  would  be  to  spot  lies 


266  WOUNDED  SOULS 

leading  to  national  antagonism,  and  to  kill  them  by  ex- 
posure to  cold  truth ;  also,  to  put  in  friendly  words,  pri- 
vately and  publicly,  on  behalf  of  human  kindness,  across 
the  barriers  of  hate  and  malignity.  Any  names  for  the 
New  York  branch  ?" 

The  doctor  took  down  twelve  names,  pledged  solemnly 
to  his  programme.  .  .  . 

I  remembered  that  scene  in  New  York  when  I  stood 
with  the  little  man  in  Susy  Whincop's  drawing-room. 

"What  about  this  crowd?"  I  asked. 

"Sonny,"  he  said,  "this  place  is  reeking  with  human- 
ity. The  real  stuff.  Idealists  who  have  seen  Hell  pretty 
close,  most  of  them.  Why,  in  this  room  there's  enough 
good-will  to  move  mountains  of  cruelty,  if  we  could  get 
a  move  on  all  together." 

It  was  then  that  I  saw  Charles  Fortune,  though  I  was 
looking  for  Brand. 

Fortune  was  wearing  one  of  his  special  "faces."  I 
interpreted  it  as  his  soulful  and  mystical  face.  It  broke 
a  little  as  he  winked  at  me. 

"Remarkable  gathering,"  he  said.  "The  Intellectuals 
come  back  to  their  lair.  Some  of  them,  like  Little  Bo- 
peep  who  lost  her  sheep  and  left  their  tails  behind  them." 

"What  does  that  mean  ?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,"  he  answered.  "We  used  to  talk  like  that 
I'm  trying  to  grope  back." 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  forehead  wearily. 

"God !"  he  said.  "How  terrible  was  war  in  a  Nissen 
hut!  I  cannot  even  now  forget  that  I  was  every  yard 
a  soldier!" 

He  began  to  hum  his  well-remembered  anthem,  "Blear- 
eyed  Bill,  the  Butcher  of  the  Boche,"  and  then  checked 
himself. 

"Nay,  let  us  forget  that  melody  of  blood.  Let  us 
rather  sing  of  fragrant  things  of  peace."  He  hummed 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  267 

the  nursery  ballad  of  "Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star,  How 
I  wonder  what  you  are!" 

Susy  Whincop  seized  him  by  the  wrist. 

"So  the  Fat  Boy  has  escaped  the  massacre?  Come 
and  make  us  laugh.  We  are  getting  too  serious  at  the 
piano  end  of  the  room." 

"Lady,"  said  Fortune,  "tempt  me  not  to  mirth-making. 
My  irony  is  terrible  when  roused." 

As  he  went  to  the  piano  I  caught  sight  of  Brand  just 
making  his  way  through  a  group  by  the  door. 

I  had  never  seen  him  in  civil  clothes,  but  he  looked 
as  I  had  imagined  him,  in  an  old  pre-war  dinner-jacket 
and  baggy  trousers,  and  a  shirt  that  bulged  abominably. 
A  tuft  of  hair  stuck  up  behind — the  tuft  that  Eileen 
O'Connor  had  pulled  for  Auld  Lang  Syne.  But  he 
looked  fine  and  distinguished,  with  his  hard,  lean  face, 
and  strong  jaw,  and  melancholy  eyes. 

He  caught  sight  of  me  and  gripped  my  hand,  pain- 
fully. 

"Hullo,  old  man!  Welcome  back.  I  have  heaps  to 
tell  you." 

"Good  things?"  I  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  good.  .  .  .  Damned  bad,  alas !" 

He  did  not  continue  the  conversation.  He  stared 
across  my  shoulder  at  the  door  as  though  he  saw  an  ap- 
parition. I  turned  to  see  the  object  of  his  gaze.  It  was 
Eileen  O'Connor,  whom  I  had  first  met- in  Lille. 

She  was  in  an  evening  frock  cut  low  at  the  neck,  and 
her  arms  were  bare.  There  was  a  smile  in  her  dark 
Irish  eyes,  and  about  her  long,  humourous  mouth.  The 
girl  I  had  seen  in  Lille  was  not  so  elegant  as  this,  not  so 
pretty.  The  lifting  of  care  perhaps  had  made  the 
change. 


268  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Susy  Whincop  gave  a  cry  of  "Is  that  Eileen?"  and 
darted  to  her. 

"It's  myself,"  said  Eileen,  releasing  herself  from  an 
ardent  embrace,  "and  all  the  better  for  seeing  you. 
Who's  who  in  this  distinguished  crowd?" 

"Old  friends,"  I  said,  being  nearest  to  her.  "Four 
men  who  walked  one  day  of  history  up  a  street  in  Lille, 
and  met  an  Irish  girl  who  had  the  worship  of  the  crowd." 

She  took  my  hand  and  I  was  glad  of  her  look  of 
friendship. 

"Four?"  she  said.  "That's  too  good  to  be  true.  All 
safe  and  home  again?" 

It  was  astonishing  that  four  of  us  should  be  there 
in  a  room  in  London  with  the  girl  who  had  been  the 
heroine  of  Lille.  But  there  was  Fortune,  and  Daddy 
Small,  and  Brand,  and  myself. 

TTie  crowd  gave  us  elbow-room  while  we  stood  round 
Eileen.  To  each  she  gave  her  hands — both  hands — and 
merry  words  of  greeting.  It  was  only  I,  and  she  per- 
haps, who  saw  the  gloom  on  Brand's  face  when  she 
greeted  him  last  and  said, 

"Is  it  well  with  you,  Wickham?" 

Her  colour  rose  a  little  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  he 
was  paler  than  when  I  saw  him  first  that  night. 

"Pretty  well,"  he  said.  "One  still  needs  courage — 
even  in  Peace." 

He  laughed  a  little  as  he  spoke,  but  I  knew  that  his 
laughter  was  the  camouflage  of  hidden  trouble,  at  which 
he  had  hinted  in  his  letters  to  me. 

We  could  not  have  much  talk  that  evening.  The 
groups  shifted  and  re-shifted.  The  best  thing  was  when 
Eileen  sang  "The  Gentle  Maiden"  as  on  a  night  in  Lille. 
Brand,  standing  near  the  door,  listened,  strangely  uncon- 
scious of  the  people  about  him. 

"It's  good  to  hear  that  song  again,"  I  said. 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  269 

He  started,  as  though  suddenly  awakened. 

"It  stirs  queer  old  memories." 

It  was  in  Eileen's  own  house  that  Brand  and  I  re- 
newed a  friendship  which  had  been  made  in  a  rescued 
city  where  we  had  heard  the  adventure  of  this  girl's  life. 


IV 

AS  Brand  admitted  to  me,  and  as  he  had  outlined 
the  trouble  in  his  letters,  he  was  having  "a  bad 
time."  Since  his  marriage  with  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach  he 
had  not  had  much  peace  of  mind  nor  any  kind  of  luck. 
After  leaving  Cologne  the  War  Office,  prompted  by  some 
unknown  influence, — he  suspected  his  father,  who  knew 
the  Secretary  for  War — had  sent  him  off  on  a  special 
mission  to  Italy  and  had  delayed  his  demobilisation  until 
a  month  before  this  meeting  of  ours.  That  had  pre- 
vented his  plan  of  bringing  Elsa  to  England,  and  now, 
when  he  was  free  and  her  journey  possible,  he  was 
seriously  embarrassed  with  regard  to  a  home  for  her. 
There  was  plenty  of  room  in  his  father's  house  at 
Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea — too  big  a  house  for  his  father 
and  mother  and  younger  sister,  now  that  the  eldest  girl 
had  married  and  his  younger  brother  lay  dead  on  the 
Somme.  It  had  been  his  idea  that  he  and  Elsa  would 
live  in  the  upper  rooms — it  made  a  kind  of  flat— while 
he  got  back  to  novel-writing  until  he  earned  enough  to 
provide  a  home  of  his  own.  It  was  still  his  idea,  as  the 
only  possible  place  for  the  immediate  future,  but  the  fam- 
ily was  dead  against  it  and  expressed  the  utmost  aver- 
sion, amounting  almost  to  horror,  at  the  idea  of  receiv- 
ing his  German  wife.  By  violent  argument,  by  appeals 
to  reason  and  charity,  most  of  all  by  the  firm  convic- 
tion of  his  father  that  he  was  suffering  from  shell-shock 
and  would  go  over  the  border-line  of  sanity  if  thwarted 
too  much,  a  grudging  consent  had  been  obtained  from 
them  to  give  Elsa  house-room.  Yet  he  dreaded  the  cold- 

270 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  271 

ness  of  her  welcome,  and  the  hostility  not  only  of  his* 
own  people  but  of  any  English  society  in  which  she 
might  find  herself. 

"I  shouldn't  have  believed,"  said  Brand,  "that  such 
vindictive  hatred  could  have  outlasted  the  war,  in  Eng- 
land. The  people  here  at  home,  who  have  never  seen 
war  closer  than  an  air-raid,  are  poisoned,  twisted  and 
envenomed  with  hate.  And  the  women  are  worst.  My 
own  mother — so  sweet  and  gentle  in  the  old  days — would 
see  every  German  baby  starve  rather  than  subscribe  to  a 
single  drop  of  milk.  My  own  sister — twenty  years  of 
age,  and  as  holy  as  an  angel — would,  scratch  out  the  eyes 
of  every  German  girl.  She  reads  the  papers  every  day 
with  a  feverish  desire  for  the  Kaiser's  trial.  She  licks 
her  lips  at  the  stories  of  starvation  in  Austria.  'They 
are  getting  punished,'  she  says.  'Who?'  I  ask  her. 
'Austrian  babies?'  and  she  says,  'The  people  who  killed 
my  brother  and  yours.'  What's  the  good  of  telling  her 
that  I  have  killed  their  brothers — many  of  them — even 
the  brother  of  my  wife " 

I  shook  my  head  at  that,  but  Brand  was  insistent. 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  ...  It  is  useless  telling  her  that  the 
innocent  are  being  punished  for  the  guilty,  and  that  all 
Europe  was  involved  in  the  same  guilt.  She  says,  'You 
have  altered  your  ideas.  The  strain  of  war  has  been 
too  much  for  you/  She  means  I'm  mad  or  bad!  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  think  I  may  be,  but  when  I  think  of  those 
scenes  in  Cologne,  the  friendly  way  of  our  fighting-men 
with  their  former  enemy,  the  charity  of  our  Tommies, 
their  lack  of  hatred  now  the  job  is  done,  I  look  at  these 
people  in  England,  the  stay-at-homes,  and  believe  it  is 
they  who  are  warped." 

The  news  of  Brand's  marriage  with  a  German  girl 
had  leaked  out,  though  his  people  tried  to  hush  it  up.  It 
came  to  me  now  and  then  as  a  tit-bit  of  scandal  from 


272  WOUNDED  SOULS 

men  who  had  been  up  at  Oxford  with  him  in  the  old 
days. 

"You  know  that  fellow  Wickham  Brand?" 

"Yes." 

"Heard  the  rumour  about  him  ?" 

"No." 

"They  say  he's  got  a  German  wife.  Married  her  after 
the  Armistice." 

"Why  not?" 

That  question  of  mine  made  them  stare  as  though  I 
had  uttered  some  blasphemy.  Generally  they  did  not 
attempt  to  answer  it,  but  shrugged  their  shoulders  with 
a  look  of  unutterable  disgust,  or  said,  "Disgraceful!" 
They  were  men,  invariably,  who  had  done  embusque 
work  in  the  war,  in  Government  offices  and  soft  jobs. 
Soldiers  who  had  fought  their  way  to  Cologne  were 
more  lenient.  One  of  them  said,  "Some  of  the  German 
girls  are  devilish  pretty.  Not  my  style,  perhaps,  but 
kissable." 

I  saw  something  of  Brand's  trouble  when  I  walked 
down  Knightsbridge  with  him  one  day  on  the  way  to 
his  home  in  Chelsea.  Horace  Chipchase,  the  novelist, 
came  face  to  face  with  us  and  gave  a  whoop  of  pleasure, 
when  he  saw  us.  Then  suddenly,  after  shaking  hands 
with  me  and  greeting  Brand  warmly,  he  remembered  the 
rumour  that  had  reached  him.  Embarrassment  over- 
came him,  and  ignoring  Brand  he  confined  his  remarks 
to  me,  awkwardly,  and  made  an  excuse  for  getting  on. 
He  did  not  look  at  Brand  again. 

"Bit  strained  in  his  manner,"  I  remarked,  glancing 
sideways  at  Wickham. 

He  strode  on,  with  tightened  lips. 

"Shared  rooms  with  me  once,  and  I  helped  him  when 
he  was  badly  in  need  of  it.  ...  He's  heard  about  Elsa. 
Silly  blighter!"- 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  TO 

But  it  hurt  the  man,  who  was  very  sensitive  under  his 
hard  crust. 

It  was  on  the  way  to  his  house  that  he  told  me  he  had 
made  arrangements  at  last  for  Elsa  to  join  him  in  Eng- 
land. One  of  his  friends  at  headquarters  in  Cologne 
was  providing  her  with  a  passport  and  had  agreed  to 
let  her  travel  with  him  to  Paris,  where  he  was  to  give 
evidence  before  a  committee  of  the  Peace  Conference. 
Brand  could  fetch  her  from  there  in  a  week's  time. 

"I  am  going  to  Paris  next  week,"  I  told  him,  and  he 
gave  a  grunt  of  pleasure,  and  said,  "Splendid !  We  can 
both  meet  Elsa." 

I  thought  it  curious  then,  and  afterwards,  that  he  was 
anxious  for  my  company  when  he  met  his  wife  and 
when  she  was  with  him.  I  think  the  presence  of  a  third 
person  helped  him  to  throw  off  a  little  of  the  melancholy 
into  which  he  relapsed  when  alone. 

I  asked  him  if  Elsa's  family  knew  of  her  marriage 
and  were  reconciled  to  it,  and  he  told  me  that  they  knew, 
but  were  less  reconciled  now  than  when  she  had  first 
broken  the  news  to  her  father  and  mother  on  the  day 
of  her  wedding.  Then  there  had  been  a  family  "scene." 
The  General  had  raged  and  stormed,  and  his  wife  had 
wept,  but  after  that  outburst  had  decided  to  forgive  her, 
in  order  to  avoid  a  family  scandal.  There  had  been  a 
formidable  assembly  of  uncles,  aunts  and  cousins  of  the 
von  Kreuzenach  family  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  this 
affair  which,  as  they  said,  "touched  their  honour,"  and 
Elsa's  description  of  it,  and  of  her  terror  and  sense  of 
guilt  (it  is  not  easy  to  break  with  racial  traditions)  was 
very  humourous,  though  at  the  same  time  rather  pathetic. 
They  had  graciously  decided,  after  prolonged  discus- 
sions in  which  they  treated  Elsa  exactly  as  though  she 
were  the  prisoner  at  a  court-martial,  to  acknowledge  and 
accept  her  marriage  with  Captain  Brand.  They  had 


274.  WOUNDED  SOULS 

been  led  to  this  decision  mainly  owing  to  the  information 
given  by  Franz  von  Kreuzenach  that  Captain  Brand 
belonged  to  the  English  aristocracy,  his  father  being  Sir 
Amyas  Brand,  and  a  member  of  the  English  House  of 
Parliament.  They  were  willing  to  admit  that,  inferior 
as  Captain  Brand's  family  might  be  to  that  of  von 
Kreuzenach — so  old  and  honoured  in  German  history — 
it  was  yet  respectable  and  not  unworthy  of  alliance  with 
them.  Possibly — it  was  an  idea  suggested  with  enor- 
mous solemnity  by  Onkel  von  Kreuzenach — Elsa's  mar- 
riage with  the  son  of  an  English  Member  of  Parliament 
might  be  of  service  to  the  Fatherland  in  obtaining  some 
amelioration  of  the  Peace  Terms  (the  Treaty  was  not 
yet  signed),  and  in  counteracting  the  harsh  malignity  of 
France.  They  must  endeavour  to  use  this  opportunity 
provided  by  Elsa  in  every  possible  way  as  a  patriotic 
duty.  ...  So  at  the  end  of  the  family  conclave  Elsa 
was  not  only  forgiven  but  was  to  some  extent  exalted  as 
an  instrument  of  God  for  the  rescue  of  their  beloved 
Germany. 

That  position  of  hers  lasted  in  her  family  until  the 
terms  of  the  Peace  Treaty  leaked  out,  and  then  were  pub- 
lished in  full.  A  storm  of  indignation  rose  in  Germany, 
and  Elsa  was  a  private  victim  of  its  violence  in  her  own 
house.  The  combined  clauses  of  the  Treaty  were  read 
as  a  sentence  of  death  by  the  German  people.  Clause  by 
clause,  they  believed  it  fastened  a  doom  upon  them,  and 
insured  their  ruin.  It  condemned  them  to  the  payment 
of  indemnities  which  would  demand  all  the  produce  of 
their  industry  for  many  and  uncertain  years.  It  re- 
duced them  to  the  position  of  a  Slave  state,  without  an 
army,  without  a  fleet,  without  colonies,  without  the  right 
to  develop  industries  in  foreign  countries,  without  ships 
to  carry  their  merchandise,  without  coal  to  supply  their 
factories,  or  raw  material  for  their  manufactures.  To 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  275 

enforce  the  payment  of  these  indemnities  foreign  com- 
missions would  seize  all  German  capital  invested  in 
former  enemy  or  neutral  states,  and  would  keep  armed 
forces  on  the  Rhine  ready  to  march  at  any  time,  years 
after  the  conclusion  of  peace,  into  the  heart  of  Germany. 
The  German  people  might  work,  but  not  for  themselves. 
They  had  freed  themselves  of  their  own  tyrants,  but 
were  to  be  subject  to  an  international  tyranny  depriving 
them  of  all  hope  of  gradual  recovery  from  the  ruin  of 
defeat.  On  the  West  and  on  the  East,  Austria  was  to 
be  hemmed  in  by  new  States  formed  out  of  her  own 
flesh-and-blood  under  the  domination  of  hostile  races. 
She  was  to  be  maimed  and  strangled.  The  Fourteen 
Points  to  which  the  Allies  had  pledged  themselves  before 
the  Armistice  had  been  abandoned  utterly,  and  Wilson's 
promise  of  a  peace  which  would  heal  the  wounds  of  the 
world  had  been  replaced  by  a  peace  of  vengeance  which 
would  plunge  Central  Europe  into  deep  gulfs  of  misery, 
despair,  and  disease.  That,  at  least,  was  the  German 
point  of  view. 

"They're  stunned,"  said  Brand.  "They  knew  they 
were  to  be  punished,  and  they  were  willing  to  pay  a 
vast  price  of  defeat.  But  they  believed  that  under  a 
Republican  Government  they  would  be  left  with  a  future 
hope  of  progress,  a  decent  hope  of  life,  based  upon  their 
industry.  Now  they  have  no  hope,  for  we  have  given 
them  a  thin  chance  of  reconstruction.  They  are  falling 
back  upon  the  hope  of  vengeance  and  revolt.  We  have 
prepared  another  inevitable  war  when  the  Germans,  with 
the  help  of  Russia,  will  strive  to  break  the  fetters  we 
have  fastened  on  them.  So  goes  the  only  purpose  for 
which  most  of  us  fought  this  war,  and  all  our  pals  have 
died  in  vain." 

He  stopped  in  the  street  and  beat  the  pavement  with 
his  stick. 


876  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"The  damned  stupidity  of  it  all !"  he  said.  "The  in- 
fernal wickedness  of  those  Old  Men  who  have  arranged 
this  thing!" 

Three  small  boys  came  galloping  up  Cheyne  Walk 
with  toy  reins  and  tinkling  bells. 

"Those  children,"  said  Brand,  "will  see  the  things  that 
we  have  seen  and  go  into  the  ditches  of  death  before 
their  manhood  has  been  fulfilled.  We  fought  to  save 
them,  and  have  failed." 

He  told  me  that  even  Elsa  had  been  aghast  at  the 
Peace  Terms. 

"I  hoped  more  from  the  generous  soul  of  England," 
she  had  written  to  him. 

Franz  von  Kreuzenach  had  written  more  bitterly  than 
that. 

"We  have  been  betrayed.  There  were  millions  of 
young  men  in  Germany  who  would  have  worked  loyally 
to  fulfil  Wilson's  conditions  of  peace  as  they  were 
pledged  in  his  Fourteen  Points.  They  would  have  taken 
their  punishment,  with  patience  and  courage,  knowing 
the  penalty  of  defeat.  They  would  have  worked  for  the 
new  ideals  of  a  new  age,  which  were  to  be  greater  liberty 
and  the  brotherhood  of  man  in  a  League  of  Nations. 
But  what  is  that  League?  It  is  a  combination  of  ene- 
mies, associated  for  the  purpose  of  crushing  the  German 
people  and  keeping  her  crushed.  I,  who  loved  England 
and  had  no  enmity  against  her  even  in  war,  cannot  for- 
give her  now  for  her  share  in  this  Peace.  As  a  German 
I  find  it  unforgivable,  because  it  perpetuates  the  spirit 
of  hatred,  and  thrusts  us  back  into  the  darkness  where 
evil  is  bred." 

"Do  you  agree  with  that?"  I  asked  Brand. 

"On  the  whole,  yes,"  he  said,  gravely.  "Mind  you, 
I'm  not  against  p'unishing  Germany.  She  had  to  be  pun- 
ished. But  we  are  substituting  slow  torture  for  just 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  277 

retribution,  and  like  Franz  I'm  thinking  of  the  effect  on 
the  future.  By  generosity  we  should  have  made  the 
world  safe.  By  vengeance  we  have  prepared  new  strife. 
Europe  will  be  given  up  to  anarchy  and  deluged  in  the 
blood  of  the  boys  who  are  now  babes." 

I  had  dinner  with  Brand's  people  and  found  them 
"difficult."  Sir  Amyas  Brand  had  Wickham's  outward 
hardness  and  none  of  his  inner  sensibility.  He  was  a 
stiff,  pompous  man  who  had  done  extremely  well  out  of 
the  war,  I  guessed,  by  the  manufacture  of  wooden  huts, 
to  which  he  attached  a  patriotic  significance,  apart  from 
his  profits.  He  alluded  to  the  death  of  his  younger  son 
as  his  "sacrifice  for  the  Empire,"  though  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  boy  Jack  had  been  the  real  victim  of  sacrifice. 
To  Wickham  he  behaved  with  an  exasperating  air  of 
forgiveness,  as  to  one  who  had  sinned  and  was  physically 
and  morally  sick. 

"How  do  you  think  Wickham  is  looking?"  he  asked 
me  at  table,  and  when  I  said,  "Very  well,"  he  sighed  and 
shook  his  head. 

"The  war  was  a  severe  nervous  strain  upon  him.  It 
has  changed  him  sadly.  We  try  to  be  patient  with  him, 
poor  lad." 

Brand  overhead  his  speech  and  flushed  angrily. 

"I'm  sorry  I  try  your  patience  so  severely,  sir,"  he  said 
in  a  bitter,  ironical  way. 

"Don't  let's  argue  about  it,  dear  lad,"  said  Sir  Amyas 
Brand  suavely. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Brand  plaintively,  "you  know  argu- 
ment is  bad  for  you,  Wickham.  You  become  so  violent, 
dear." 

"Besides,"  said  Ethel  Brand,  the  daughter,  in  a  low 
and  resigned  voice,  "what's  done  can't  be  undone." 

"Meaning  Elsa?"  asked  Wickham  savagely.  I  could 
see  that  but  for  my  restraining  presence  as  a  stranger 


278  WOUNDED  SOULS 

there  was  all  the  inflammable  stuff  here  for  a  first-class 
domestic  'flare-up.' 

"What  else?"  asked  Ethel  coldly,  and  meeting  her 
brother's  challenging  eyes  with  a  perfectly  steady  gaze. 
She  was  a  handsome  girl  with  regular,  classical  features, 
and  tight  lips,  as  narrow-minded,  I  imagined,  as  a  mid- 
Victorian  spinster  in  a  cathedral  town,  and  as  hard  as 
granite  in  principle  and  prejudice. 

Wickham  weakened,  after  signs  of  an  explosion  of 
rage.  He  spoke  gently,  and  revealed  a  hope  to  which  I 
think  he  clung  desperately. 

"When  Elsa  comes  you  will  all  fall  in  love  with  her." 

It  was  the  worst  thing  he  could  have  said,  though  he 
was  unconscious  of  his  "gaffe." 

His  sister  Ethel  reddened,  and  I  could  see  her  mouth 
harden. 

"So  far,  I  have  remarkably  little  love  for  Germans, 
male  or  female." 

"I  hope  we  shall  behave  with  Christian  charity,"  said 
Lady  Brand. 

Sir  Amyas  Brand  coughed  uneasily,  and  then  tried  to 
laugh  off  his  embarrassment  for  my  benefit. 

"There  will  be  considerable  scandal  in  my  constitu- 
ency !" 

"To  hell  with  that !"  said  Brand  irritably.  "It's  about 
time  the  British  public  returned  to  sanity." 

"Ah!"  said  Sir  Amyas,  "there's  a  narrow  border-line 
between  sanity  and  shell-shock.  Really,  it  is  distressing 
what  a  number  of  men  seem  to  come  back  with  disor- 
dered nerves.  All  these  crimes,  all  these  cases  of  vio- 
lence  " 

It  gave  him  a  chance  of  repeating  a  leading  article 
which  he  had  read  that  morning  in  The  Times.  It  pro- 
vided a  conversation  without  controversy  until  the  end 
of  dinner. 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  279 

In  the  hall,  before  I  left,  Wickham  Brand  laughed, 
rather  miserably. 

"It's  not  going  to  be  easy!  Elsa  will  find  the  climate 
rather  cold  here,  eh?" 

"She  will  win  them  over,"  I  said  hopefully,  and  these 
words  cheered  him. 

"Why,  yes,  they're  bound  to  like  her." 

We  arranged  for  the  Paris  trip  two  weeks  later,  but 
before  then  we  were  sure  to  meet  at  Eileen  O'Connor's. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  dined  together  with  Daddy 
Small  next  day,  and  Eileen  was  with  him. 


I  FOUND  Eileen  O'Connor  refreshing  and  invigorat- 
ing, so  that  it  was  good  to  be  in  her  company. 
Most  people  in  England  at  that  time,  at  least  those  !• 
met,  were  "nervy,"  depressed,  and  apprehensive  of  evil 
to  come.  There  was  hardly  a  family  I  knew  who  had 
not  one  vacant  chair  wherein  a  boy  had  sat  when  he  had 
come  home  from  school  or  office,  and  afterwards  on 
leave.  Their  ghosts  haunted  these  homes  and  were  pres- 
ent in  any  company  where  people  gathered  for  conversa- 
tion or  distraction.  The  wound  to  England's  soul  was 
unhealed,  and  the  men  who  came  back  had  received  grave 
hurt,  many  of  them,  to  their  nervous  and  moral  health. 

This  Irish  girl  was  beautifully  gay,  not  with  that  de- 
liberate and  artificial  gaiety  which  filled,  London  theatres 
and  dancing-halls,  but  with  an  inner  flame  of  happiness. 
It  was  difficult  to  account  for  that.  She  had  seen  much 
tragedy  in  Lille.  Death  and  the  agony  of  men  had  been 
familiar  to  her.  She  had  faced  death  herself,  very 
closely,  escaping,  as  she  said,  by  a  narrow  "squeak."  Shd 
had  seen  the  brutality  of  war  and  its  welter  of  misery 
for  men  and  women,  and  now  in  time  of  Peace  she  was 
conscious  of  the  sufferings  of  many  people,  and  did  not 
hide  these  things  from  her  mental  vision,  or  cry,  "All's 
right  with  the  world !"  when  all  was  wrong.  But  some- 
thing in  her  character,  something,  perhaps,  in  her  faith, 
enabled  her  to  resist  the  pressure  of  all  this  morbid  emo- 
tion and  to  face  it  squarely,  with  smiling  eyes.  Another 
thing  that  attracted  one  was  her  fearlessness  of  truth. 

280 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  281 

At  a  time  when  most  people  shrank  from  truth  her  can- 
dour was  marvellous,  with  the  simplicity  of  childhood 
joined  to  the  wisdom  of  womanhood. 

I  saw  this  at  the  dinner-party  for  four,  arranged  in 
her  honour,  by  Daddy  Small.  That  was  given,  for 
cheapness'  sake,  at  a  little  old  restaurant  in  Whitehall 
which  provided  a  good  dinner  for  a  few  shillings,  and  in 
an  "atmosphere"  of  old-fashioned  respectability  which! 
appealed  to  the  little  American. 

Eileen  knocked  Brand  edgewise  at  the  beginning  of  his 
dinner  by  remarking  about  his  German  marriage. 

"The  news  came  to  me  as  a  shock,"  she  said,  and 
when  Wickham  raised  his  eyebrows  and  looked  both 
surprised  and  dismayed  (he  had  counted  on  her  sym- 
pathy and  help),  she  patted  his  hand  as  it  played  a  devil's 
tattoo  on  the  table-cloth,  and  launched  into  a  series  of( 
indiscretions  that  fairly  made  my  hair  curl. 

"Theoretically,"  she  said,  "I  hadn't  the  least  objection 
to  your  marrying  a  German  girl.  I  have  always  believed 
that  love  is  an  instinct  which  is  beyond  the  control  of 
diplomats  who  arrange  frontiers  and  Generals  who  direct 
wars.  I  saw  a  lot  of  it  in  Lille — and  there  was  Franz 
von  Kreuzenach,  who  fell  in  love  with  me,  poor  child. 
What  really  hurt  me  for  a  while  was  green-eyed  jeal- 
ousy." 

"Daddy  Small  laughed  hilariously,  and  filled  up 
Eileen's  glass  with  Moselle  wine. 

Brand  looked  blank. 

"Jealousy?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Eileen.  "Imagine  me,  an  Irish  girl, 
all  soppy  with  emotion  at  the  first  sight  of  English  khaki 
(that's  a  fantastic  situation  anyhow!),  after  four  years 
with  the  grey  men,  and  then  finding  that  the  first  khaki 
tunic  she  meets  holds  the  body  of  a  man  she  knew  as  a 
boy,  when  she  used  to  pull  his  hair!  And  such  a  grave 


£82  WOUNDED  SOULS 

heroic-looking  man,  Wicky!  Why,  I  felt  like  one  of 
Tennyson's  ladies  released  from  her  dark  tower  by  a 
Knight  of  the  Round  Table.  Then  you  went  away  and 
married  a  German  Gretchen!  And  all  my  doing,  be- 
cause if  I  hadn't  given  you  a  letter  to  Franz  you  wouldn't 
have  met  Elsa.  So  when  I  heard  the  news,  I  thought, 
'There  goes  my  romance !'  " 

Daddy  Small  laughed  again,  joyously. 

"Say,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "you're  making  poor  old 
Wickham  blush  like  an  Englishman  asked  to  tell  the  story 
of  his  V.C.  in  public." 

Brand  laughed,  too,  in  his  harsh,  deep  voice. 

"Why,  Eileen,  you  ought  to  have  told  me  before  I 
moved  out  of  Lille." 

"And  where  would  maiden  modesty  have  been  ?"  asked 
Eileen,  in  her  humourous  way. 

"Where  is  it  now?"  asked  the  little  doctor. 

"Besides,"  said  Brand,  "I  had  that  letter  to  Franz  von 
Kreuzenach  in  my  pocket.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I 
detested  the  fellow  for  his  infernal  impudence  in  making 
love  to  you." 

"Sure  now,  it  was  a  one-sided  affair,  entirely,"  said 
Eileen,  exaggerating  her  Irish  accent,  "but  one  has  to 
be  polite  to  a  gentleman  that  saves  one's  life  on  account 
of  a  romantic  passion.  Oh,  Wickham,  it's  very  English 
you  are!" 

Brand  could  find  nothing  to  say  for  himself,  and  it 
was  I  who  came  to  the  rescue  of  his  embarrassment  by 
dragging  a  red  herring  across  the  thread  of  Eileen's 
discourse.  She  had  a  wonderful  way  of  saying  things 
that  on  most  girls'  lips  would  have  seemed  audacious,  or 
improper,  or  high-falutin,  but  on  hers  were  natural  with 
a  simplicity  which  shone  through  her. 

Her  sense  of  humour  played  like  a  light  about  her 
words,  yet  beneath  her  wit  was  a  tenderness  and  a  knowl- 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  283 

edge  of  tragic  things.  I  remember  some  of  her  sayings 
that  night  at  dinner,  and  they  seemed  to  me  very  good 
then,  though  when  put  down  they  lose  the  deep  melody 
of  her  voice  and  the  smile  or  sadness  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"England,"  she  said,  "fought  the  war  for  Liberty  and 
the  rights  of  small  nations,  but  said  to  Ireland,  'Hush, 
keep  quiet  there,  damn  you,  or  you'll  make  us  look 
ridiculous/  ' 

"Irish  soldiers,"  she  said,  "helped  England  to  win  all 
her  wars  but  mostly  in  Scottish  regiments.  When  the 
poor  boys  wanted  to  carry  an  Irish  flag,  Kitchener  said, 
'Go  to  Hell,'  and  some  of  them  went  to  Flanders  .  .  . 
and  recruiting  stopped  with  a  snap." 

"Now,  how  do  you  know  these  things?"  asked  Daddy 
Small.  "Did  Kitchener  go  to  Lille  to  tell  you?" 

"No,"  said  Eileen,  "but  I  found  some  of  the  Dublin 
boys  in  the  prison  at  Lille,  and  they  told  the  truth  before 
they  died,  and  perhaps  it  was  that  which  killed  them. 
That,  and  starvation,  and  German  brutality." 

"I  believe  you're  a  Sinn  Feiner,"  said  Dr.  Small. 
"Why  don't  you  go  to  Ireland  and  show  your  tme 
colours,  ma'am?" 

"I'm  Sinn  Fein  all  right,"  said  Eileen,  "but  I  hated 
the  look  of  a  white  wall  in  Lille,  and  there  are  so  many 
white  walls  in  the  little  green  isle.  So  I'm  stopping  in 
Kensington  and  trying  to  hate  the  English,  but  can't  he- 
cause  I  love  them." 

She  turned  to  Wickham  and  said: 

"Will  you  take  me  for  a  row  in  Kensington  Gardens 
the  very  next  day  the  sun  shines?" 

"Rather!"  said  Wickham,  "on  one  condition!" 

"And  that?" 

"That  you'll  be  kind  to  my  little  Elsa  when  she  comes." 

"I'll  be  a  mother  to  her,"  said  Eileen,  "but  she  must 
come  quick  or  I'll  be  gone." 


284  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"Gone?" 

Wickham  spoke  with  dismay  in  his  voice.  I  think 
he  had  counted  on  Eileen  as  his  stand-by  when  Elsa 
would  need  a  friend  in  England. 

"Hush  now!"  said  Daddy  Small.  "It's  my  secret, 
you  wicked  lady  with  black  eyes  and  a  mystical  manner." 

"Doctor,"  said  Eileen,  "your  own  President  rebukes 
you.  'Open  covenants  openly  arrived  at' — weren't  those 
his  words  for  the  new  diplomacy?" 

"Would  to  God  he  had  kept  to  them,"  said  the  little 
doctor,  bitterly,  launching  into  a  denunciation  of  the 
Peace  Conference  until  I  cut  him  short  with  a  question. 

"What's  this  secret,  Doctor  ?" 

He  pulled  out  his  pocket-book  with  an  air  of  mystery. 

"We're  getting  on  with  the  International  League  of 
Good-will,"  he  said.  "It's  making  more  progress  than 
the  League  of  Nations.  There  are  names  here  that  are 
worth  their  weight  in  gold.  There  are  golden  promises 
which  by  the  grace  of  God" — Daddy  Small  spoke  solemn- 
ly— "will  be  fulfilled  by  golden  deeds.  Anyhow,  we're 
going  to  get  a  move  on — away  from  hatred  towards 
charity,  not  for  the  making  of  wounds  but  for  the  heal- 
ing, not  punishing  the  innocent  for  the  sins  of  the  guilty, 
but  saving  the  innocent — the  Holy  Innocents — for  the 
glory  of  life.  Miss  Eileen  and  others  are  going  to  be 
the  instruments  of  the  machinery  of  mercy — rather,  I 
should  say,  the  spirit  of  humanity." 

"With  you  as  our  gallant  leader,"  said  Eileen,  patting 
his  hand. 

"It  sounds  good,"  said  Brand.  "Let's  hear  some 
more." 

Dr.  Small  told  us  more  in  glowing  language,  and  in 
Biblical  utterance  mixed  with  American  slang  like  Billy 
Sunday's  Bible.  He  was  profoundly  moved.  He  was 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  285 

filled  with  hope  and  gladness,  and  with  a  humble  pride 
because  his  efforts  had  borne  fruit. 

The  scheme  was  simple.  From  his  friends  in  the 
United  States  he  had  promises,  as  good  as  gold,  of  many 
millions  of  American  dollars.  From  English  friends 
he  had  also  considerable  sums.  With  this  treasure  he 
was  going  to  Central  Europe  to  organise  relief  on  a  big 
scale  for  the  children  who  were  starving  to  death.  Eileen 
O'Connor  was  to  be  his  private  secretary  and  assistant- 
organiser.  She  would  have  heaps  of  work  to  do,  and  she 
had  graduated  in  the  prisons  and  slums  of  Lille.  They 
were  starting  in  a  week's  time  for  Warsaw,  Prague, 
Buda-Pesth  and  Vienna. 

"Then,"  said  Brand,  "Elsa  will  lose  a  friend." 

"Bring  her  too,"  said  Eileen.    "There's  work  for  all." 

Brand  was  startled  by  this,  and  a  sudden  light  leapt 
into  his  eyes. 

"By  Jove!  .  .  .  But  I'm  afraid  not.  That's  im- 
possible." 

So  it  was  only  a  week  we  had  with  Eileen,  but  in  that 
time  we  had  some  good  meetings  and  merry  adventures. 
Brand  and  I  rowed  her  on  the  lake  in  Kensington  Gar- 
dens, and  she  told  us  Irish  fairy-tales  as  she  sat  in  the 
stern,  with  her  hat  in  her  lap,  and  the  wind  playing  in 
her  brown  hair.  We  took  her  to  the  Russian  Ballet  and 
she  wept  a  little  at  the  beauty  of  it. 

"After  four  years  of  war,"  she  said,  "beauty  is  like 
water  to  a  parched  soul.  It  is  so  exquisite  it  hurts." 

She  took  us  one  day  into  the  Carmelite  church  at 
Kensington,  and  Brand  and  I  knelt  each  side  of  her,  feel- 
ing sinners  with  a  saint  between  us.  And  then,  less  like 
a  saint,  she  sang  ribald  little  songs  on  the  way  to  her 
mother's  house  in  Holland  Street,  and  said,  "Drat  the 
thing !"  when  she  couldn't  find  her  key  to  unlock  the  door. 

"Sorry,  Biddy  my  dear,"  she  said  to  the  little  maid- 


286  WOUNDED  SOULS 

servant  who  opened  the  door.  "I  shall  forget  my  head 
one  day." 

"Sure,  Miss  Eileen,"  said  the  girl,  "but  never  the 
dear  heart  of  you,  at  all,  at  all." 

Eileen's  mother  was  a  buxom,  cheery,  smiling  Irish- 
woman who  did  not  worry,  I  fancy,  about  anything  in  the 
world,  and  was  sure  of  Heaven.  Her  drawing-room 
was  littered  with  papers  and  novels,  some  of  which  she 
swept  off  the  sofa  with  a  careless  hand. 

"Won't  you  take  a  seat  then?" 

I  asked  her  whether  she  had  not  been  anxious  about 
her  daughter  when  Eileen  was  all  those  years  under 
German  rule. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  lady.  "I  knew  our  dear  Lord 
was  as  near  to  Lille  as  to  London." 

Two  of  her  boys  had  been  killed  in  the  war,  "fighting," 
she  said,  "for  an  ungrateful  country  which  keeps  its 
heel  on  the  neck  of  Ireland,"  and  two  were  in  the  United 
States,  working  for  the  honour  of  Ireland  on  American 
newspapers.  Eileen's  two  sisters  had  married  during 
the  war  and  between  them  had  given  birth  to  four  Sinn 
Feiners.  Eileen's  father  had  died  a  year  ago,  and  almost 
his  last  word  had  been  her  name. 

"The  dear  man  thought  all  the  world  of  Eileen,"  said 
Mrs.  O'Connor.  "I  was  out  of  it  entirely  when  he  had 
her  by  his  side." 

"You'll  be  lonely,"  said  Brand,  "when  your  daughter 
goes  abroad  again." 

Eileen  answered  him. 

"Oh,  you  can't  keep  me  back  by  insidious  remarks 
like  that!  Mother  spends  most  of  her  days  in  church, 
and  the  rest  of  them  reading  naughty  novels  which  keep 
her  from  ascending  straight  to  Heaven  without  the  neces- 
sity of  dying  first.  She  is  never  lonely  because  her  spirit 
is  in  touch  with  those  she  loves,  in  this  world  or  the  other. 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  287 

And  isn't  that  the  truth  I'm  after  talking,  Mother  o* 
mine?" 

"I  never  knew  more  than  one  O'Connor  who  told  the 
truth  yet,"  said  the  lady,  "and  that's  yourself,  my  dear. 
And  it's  a  frightening  way  you  have  with  it  that  would 
scare  the  devil  out  of  his  skin." 

They  were  pleasant  hours  with  Eileen,  and  when  she 
went  away  from  Charing  Cross  one  morning  with  Dr. 
Small,  five  hospital  nurses  and  two  Americans  of  the 
Red  Cross,  I  wished  with  all  my  heart  that  Wickham 
Brand  had  asked  her,  and  not  Elsa  von  Kreuzenach,  to 
be  his  wife.  That  was  an  idle  wish,  for  the  next  morn- 
ing Brand  and  I  crossed  over  to  France,  and  on  the  way 
to  Paris  my  friend  told  me  that  the  thought  of  meeting 
Elsa  after  those  months  of  separation  excited  him  so 
that  each  minute  seemed  an  hour.  And  as  he  told  me 
that  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and  I  saw  that  his  hand  was 
trembling,  because  of  this  nervous  strain. 


VI 

WE  met  Elsa  at  the  Gare  de  I'Est  in  Paris  the  eve- 
ning after  our  arrival.  Brand's  nervous  anxiety 
had  increased  as  the  hour  drew  near,  and  he  smoked 
cigarette  after  cigarette,  while  he  paced  up  and  down 
the  salle  d'attente  as  far  as  he  could  for  the  crowds 
which  surged  there. 

Once  he  spoke  to  me  about  his  apprehensions. 

"I  hope  to  God  this  will  work  out  all  right.  .  .  .  I'm 
only  thinking  of  her  happiness." 

Another  time  he  said : 

"This  French  crowd  would  tear  her  to  pieces  if  they 
knew  she  was  German." 

While  we  were  waiting  we  met  a  friend  of  old  times. 
I  was  first  to  recognise  Pierre  Nesle,  who  had  been  at- 
tached to  us  as  interpreter  and  liaison  officer.  He  was  in 
civil  clothes  and  was  wearing  a  bowler  hat  and  a  light 
overcoat,  so  that  his  transformation  was  astonishing.  .1 
touched  him  on  the  arm  as  he  made  his  way  quickly 
through  the  crowd,  and  he  turned  sharply  and  stared  at 
me  as  though  he  could  not  place  me  at  all.  Then  a  look 
of  recognition  leapt  into  his  eyes  and  he  grasped  both 
my  hands,  delightedly.  He  was  still  thin  and  pale,  but 
some  of  his  old  melancholy  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes 
and  in  its  place  there  was  an  eager,  purposeful  look. 

"Here's  Brand,"  I  said.  "He'll  be  glad  to  see  you 
again." 

"Quelle  chance!"  exclaimed  Pierre,  and  he  made  a 
dash  for  his  friend  and  before  Brand  could  remonstrate 
kissed  him  on  both  cheeks.  They  had  been  good  com- 

288 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  289 

rades,  and  after  the  rescue  of  Marthe  from  the  mob  in 
Lille  it  was  to  Brand  that  Pierre  Nesle  had  opened  his 
heart  and  revealed  his  agony.  He  could  not  stay  long 
with  us  in  the  station  as  he  was  going  to  some  political 
meeting,  and  perhaps  it  was  well,  because  Brand  was 
naturally  anxious  to  escape  from  him  before  Elsa  came. 

"I  am  working  hard — speaking,  writing,  organising — 
on  behalf  of  the  Ligue  des  Tranchees,"  said  Pierre.  "You 
must  come  and  see  me  at  my  office.  It's  the  headquarters 
of  the  new  movement  in  France.  Anti-militarist,  to  ful- 
fil the  ideals  of  the  men  who  fought  to  end  war." 

"You're  going  to  fight  against  heavy  odds,"  said 
Brand.  "Clemenceau  won't  love  you,  nor  those  who  like 
his  Peace." 

Pierre  laughed  and  used  an  old  watchword  of  the  war. 

"Nous  les  aurons!  Those  old  dead-heads  belong  to  the 
past.  Peace  has  still  to  be  made  by  the  men  who  fought 
for  a  new  world." 

He  gave  us  his  address,  pledged  us  to  call  on  him,  and 
slipped  into  the  vortex  of  the  crowd. 

Brand  and  I  waited  another  twenty  minutes,  and  then 
in  a  tide  of  new  arrivals  we  saw  Elsa.  She  was  in  the 
company  of  Major  Quin,  Brand's  friend  who  had 
brought  her  from  Cologne,  a  tall  Irishman  who  stooped 
a  little  as  he  gave  his  arm  to  the  girl.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  blue  coat  and  skirt,  very  neatly,  and  it  was  the  glitter 
of  her  spun-gold  hair  that  made  me  catch  sight  of  her 
quickly  in  the  crowd.  Her  eyes  had  a  frightened  look 
as  she  came  forward,  and  she  was  white  to  the  lips. 
Thinner,  too,  than  when  I  had  seen  her  last,  so  that' 
she  looked  older  and  not,  perhaps,  quite  so  wonderfully 
pretty.  But  her  face  lighted  up  with  intense  gladness 
when  Brand  stood  in  front  of  her,  and  then,  under  an 
electric  lamp,  with  a  crowd  surging  around  him,  took  her 
in  his  arms. 


290  WOUNDED  SOULS 

Major  Quin  and  I  stood  aloof,  chatting  together. 

"Good  journey?"  I  asked. 

"Excellent,  but  I'm  glad  it's  over.  That  little  lady  is 
too  unmistakably  German.  Everybody  spotted  her  and 
looked  unutterable  things.  She  was  frightened,  and  I 
don't  wonder.  Most  of  them  thought  the  worst  of  me. 
I  had  to  threaten  one  fellow  with  a  damned  good  hiding 
for  an  impertinent  remark  I  overheard." 

Brand  thanked  him  for  looking  after  his  wife,  and 
Elsa  gave  him  her  hand  and  said,  "Danke  schon" 

Major  Quin  raised  his  finger  and  said,  "Hush.  Don't 
forget  you're  in  Paris  now." 

Then  he  saluted  with  a  click  of  spurs,  and  took  his 
leave.  I  put  Brand  and  his  wife  in  a  taxi  and  drove  out- 
side, by  the  driver,  to  a  quiet  old  hotel  in  the  Rue  St. 
Honore,  where  we  had  booked  rooms. 

When  we  registered,  the  manager  at  the  desk  stared 
at  Elsa  curiously.  She  spoke  English,  but  with  an  un- 
mistakable accent.  The  man's  courtesy  to  Brand,  which 
had  been  perfect,  fell  from  him  abruptly  and  he  spoke 
with  icy  insolence  when  he  summoned  one  of  the  boys 
to  take  up  the  baggage.  In  the  dining-room  that  night 
all  eyes  turned  to  Elsa  and  Brand,  with  inquisitive,  hos- 
tile looks.  I  suppose  her  frock,  simple  and  ordinary  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  proclaimed  its  German  fashion.  Or 
perhaps  her  face  and  hair  were  not  so  English  as  I  had 
imagined.  It  was  a  little  while  before  the  girl  herself 
was  aware  of  those  unpleasant  glances  about  her.  She 
was  very  happy  sitting  next  to  Brand,  whose  hand  she 
caressed  once  or  twice  and  into  whose  face  she  looked 
with  adoration.  She  was  still  very  pale,  and  I  could  see 
that  she  was  immensely  tired  after  her  journey,  but  her 
eyes  shone  wonderfully.  Sometimes  she  looked  about 
her  and  encountered  the  stares  of  people — elderly  French 
bourgeois  and  some  English  nurses  and  a  few  French 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  291 

officers — dining  at  other  tables  in  the  great  room  with 
gilt  mirrors  and  painted  ceiling.  She  spoke  to  Brand 
presently  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  am  afraid.  These  people  stare  at  me  so  much. 
They  guess  what  I  am." 

"It's  only  your  fancy,"  said  Brand.  "Besides,  they 
would  be  fools  not  to  stare  at  a  face  like  yours." 

She  smiled  and  coloured  up  at  that  sweet  flattery. 

"I  know  when  people  like  one's  looks.  It  is  not  for 
that  reason  they  stare." 

"Ignore  them,"  said  Brand.  "Tell  me  about  Franz, 
and  Frau  von  Detmold." 

It  was  unwise  of  him  to  sprinkle  his  conversation  with 
German  names.  The  waiter  at  our  tables  was  listening 
attentively.  Presently  I  saw  him  whispering  behind  the 
screen  to  one  of  his  comrades  and  looking  our  way  sul- 
lenly. He  kept  us  waiting  an  unconscionable  time  for 
coffee,  and  when  at  last  Brand  gave  his  arm  to  Elsa  and 
led  her  from  the  room,  he  gave  a  harsh  laugh  as  they 
passed,  and  I  heard  the  words,  "Sale  Boche!"  spoken  in 
a  low  tone  of  voice  yet  loud  enough  for  all  the  room  to 
hear.  From  all  the  little  tables  there  came  titters  of 
laughter  and  those  words  "Sale  Boche!"  were  repeated 
by  several  voices.  I  hoped  that  Elsa  and  Brand  had  not 
heard,  but  I  saw  Elsa  sway  a  little  on  her  husband's  arm 
as  though  struck  by  an  invisible  blow,  and  Brand  turned 
with  a  look  of  passion,  as  though  he  would  hit  the  waiter 
or  challenge  the  whole  room  to  warfare.  But  Elsa  whis- 
pered to  him,  and  he  went  with  her  up  the  staircase  to 
their  rooms. 

The  next  morning  when  I  met  them  at  breakfast  Elsa 
still  looked  desperately  tired,  though  very  happy,  and 
Brand  had  lost  a  little  of  his  haggard  look,  and  his  nerve 
was  steadier.  But  it  was  an  uncomfortable  moment  for 
all  of  us  when  the  manager  came  to  the  table  and  re- 


WOUNDED  SOULS 

gretted  with  icy  courtesy  that  their  rooms  would  not  be 
available  another  night,  owing  to  a  previous  arrange- 
ment which  he  had  unfortunately  overlooked. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Brand  shortly.  "I  have  taken  these 
rooms  for  three  nights,  and  I  intend  to  stay  in  them." 

"It  is  impossible,"  said  the  manager.  "I  must  ask  you 
to  have  your  baggage  packed  by  twelve  o'clock."' 

Brand  dealt  with  him  firmly. 

"I  am  an  English  officer.  If  I  hear  another  word 
from  you  I  will  call  on  the  Provost  Marshal  and  get  him 
to  deal  with  you." 

The  manager  bowed.  This  threat  cowed  him,  and  he 
said  no  more  about  a  change  of  rooms.  But  Brand  and 
his  wife,  and  I  as  their  friend,  suffered  from  a  policy  of 
passive  resistance  to  our  presence.  The  chambermaid 
did  not  answer  their  bell,  having  become  strangely  deaf. 
The  waiter  was  generally  engaged  at  other  tables  when- 
ever we  wanted  him.  The  hall  porter  turned  his  back 
upon  us.  The  page-boys  made  grimaces  behind  our 
backs,  as  I  saw  very  well  in  the  gilt  mirror,  and  as  Elsa 
saw. 

They  took  to  having  their  meals  out,  Brand  insisting 
always  that  I  should  join  them,  and  we  drove  out  to  the 
Bois  and  had  tea  there  in  the  Chalet  des  lies.  It  was  a 
beautiful  afternoon  in  September,  and  the  leaves  were 
just  turning  to  crinkled  gold  and  the  lake  was  as  blue 
as  the  cloudless  sky  above.  Across  the  ferry  came  boat- 
loads of  young  Frenchmen  with  their  girls,  singing, 
laughing,  on  this  day  of  peace.  Some  of  the  men  limped 
as  they  came  up  the  steps  from  the  landing-stage.  One 
walked  on  crutches.  Another  had  an  empty  sleeve.  Un- 
der the  trees  they  made  love  to  their  girls  and  fed  them 
with  rose-tinted  ices. 

"These  people  are  happy,"  said  Elsa.    "They  have  for- 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  293 

gotten  already  the  agony  of  war.  Victory  is  "healing. 
In  Germany  there  is  only  misery." 

A  little  later  she  talked  about  the  Peace. 

"If  only  the  Entente  had  been  more  generous  in  vic- 
tory our  despair  would  not  be  so  great.  Many  of  us, 
great  multitudes,  believed  that  the  price  of  defeat  would 
be  worth  paying  because  Germany  would  take  a  place 
among  free  nations  and  share  in  the  creation  of  a  nobler 
world.  Now  we  are  crushed  by  the  militarism  of  na- 
tions who  have  used  our  downfall  to  increase  their  own 
power.  The  light  of  a  new  ideal  which  rose  above  the 
darkness  has  gone  out." 

Brand  took  his  wife's  hand  and  stroked  it  in  his  big 
paw. 

"All  this  is  temporary  and  the  work  of  the  Old  Men 
steeped  in  the  old  traditions  which  led  to  war.  We  must 
wait  for  them  to  die.  Then  out  of  the  agony  of  the 
world's  boyhood  will  come  the  new  revelation," 

Elsa  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned  forward,  looking 
across  the  lake  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

"I  would  like  to  live  long  enough  to  be  sure  of  that," 
she  said,  eagerly.  "If  we  have  children,  my  husband, 
perhaps  they  will  listen  to  our  tales  of  the  war  as  Franz 
and  I  read  about  wolves  and  goblins  in  our  fairy-tales. 
The  fearfulness  of  them  was  not  frightening,  for  we 
knew  we  were  safe." 

"God  grant  that,"  said  Brand,  gravely. 

"But  I  am  afraid !"  said  Elsa.  She  looked  again  across 
the  lake,  so  blue  under  the  sky,  so  golden  in  sunlight; 
and  shivered  a  little. 

"You  are  cold !"  said  Brand. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her  as  they  sat  side  by  side, 
and  her  head  drooped  upon  his  shoulder  and  she  closed 
her  eyes,  like  a  tired  child. 

They  went  to  the  opera  that  night  and  I  refused  their 


294  WOUNDED  SOULS 

invitation  to  join  them,  protesting  that  they  would  never 
learn  to  know  each  other  if  a  third  person  were  always 
present  I  slipped  away  to  see  Pierre  Nesle,  and  found 
him  at  an  office  in  a  street  somewhere  off  the  Rue  du 
Louvre,  which  was  filled  with  young  men,  whose  faces 
I  seemed  to  have  seen  before  under  blue  shrapnel  hel- 
mets above  blue  tunics.  They  were  typewriting  as  though 
serving  machine-guns,  and  folding  up  papers  while  they 
whistled  the  tune  of  "Madelon."  Pierre  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  dictating  letters  to  a  poilu  in  civil  clothes. 

"Considerable  activity  on  the  Western  front,  eh?"  he 
said  when  he  saw  me. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Pierre." 

He  told  me  something  about  it  in  a  restaurant  where 
we  dined  in  the  Rue  du  Marche  St.  Honore.  He  was 
one  of  the  organising  secretaries  of  a  society  made  up 
exclusively  of  young  soldiers  who  had  fought  in  the 
trenches.  There  was  a  sprinkling  of  intellectuals  among 
them — painters,  poets,  novelists,  journalists — but  the 
main  body  were  simple  soldiers  animated  by  one  idea — 
to  prevent  another  war  by  substituting  the  commonsense 
and  brotherhood  of  peoples  for  the  old  diplomacy  of 
secret  alliances  and  the  old  tradition  of  powerful  armies. 

"How  about  the  Peace  Treaty  and  the  League  of 
Nations  ?"  I  asked. 

Pierre  Nesle  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

"The  Peace  Treaty  belongs  to  the  Napoleonic  tradi- 
tion. We've  got  beyond  that  now.  It  is  the  programme 
that  has  carefully  arranged  another  and  inevitable  war. 
Look  at  the  world  now!  Look  at  France,  Italy,  Ger- 
many, Austria!  We  are  all  ruined  together,  and  those 
most  ruined  will,  by  their  disease  and  death,  drag  down 
Europe  into  general  misery.  Mon  ineux,  what  has  vic- 
tory given  to  France?  A  great  belt  of  devastated  coun- 
try, cemeteries  crowded  with  dead  youth,  bankruptcy, 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  295 

and  everything  five  times  the  cost  of  pre-war  rates.  An- 
other such  victory  will  wipe  us  off  the  map.  We  have 
smashed  Germany,  it  is  true,  for  a  time.  We  have  pun- 
ished her  women  and  children  for  the  crimes  of  their 
War  Lords,  but  can  we  keep  her  crushed?  Are  our 
frontiers  impregnable  against  the  time  when  her  people 
come  back  for  revenge,  smashing  the  fetters  we  have 
placed  on  them,  and  rising  again  in  strength?  For  ten 
years,  for  twenty  years,  for  thirty  years,  perhaps,  we 
shall  be  safe.  And  after  that,  if  the  heart  of  Europe 
does  not  change,  if  we  do  not  learn  wisdom  from  the 
horror  that  has  passed,  France  will  be  ravaged  again, 
and  all  that  we  have  seen  our  children  will  see,  and  their 
suffering  will  be  greater  than  ours,  and  they  will  not 
have  the  hope  we  had." 

He  stared  back  into  the  past,  not  a  very  distant  past, 
and  I  fancy  that  among  the  figures  he  saw  was  Marthe, 
his  sister. 

"What's  the  remedy?"  I  asked. 

"A  Union  of  Democracy  across  the  frontiers  of  hate," 
he  answered,  and  I  think  it  was  a  phrase  that  he  had 
written  and  learnt  by  heart. 

"A  fine  phrase !"  I  said,  laughing  a  little. 

He  flared  up  at  me. 

"It's  more  than  a  phrase.  It's  the  heart-beat  of  mil- 
lions in  Europe." 

"In  France?"  I  asked  pointedly.  "In  the  France  of 
Clemenceau  ?" 

"More  than  you  imagine,"  he  answered,  boldly.  "Be- 
neath our  present  chauvinism,  our  natural  exultation  in 
victory,  our  inevitable  hatred  of  the  enemy,  common- 
sense  is  at  work,  and  an  idealism  higher  than  that.  At 
present  its  voice  is  not  heard.  The  old  men  are  having 
their  day.  Presently  the  new  men  will  arrive  with  the 
new  ideas.  They  are  here,  but  do  not  speak  yet" 


296  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"The  Old  Men  again!"  I  said.  "It  is  strange.  In 
Germany,  in  France,  in  England,  even  in  America,  peo- 
ple are  talking  strangely  about  the  Old  Men  as  though 
they  were  guilty  of  all  this  agony.  That  is  remarkable." 

"They  were  guilty,"  said  Pierre  Nesle.  "It  is  against 
the  Old  Men  in  all  countries  of  Europe  that  Youth  will 
declare  war.  For  it  was  their  ideas  which  brought  us 
to  our  ruin." 

He  spoke  so  loudly  that  people  in  the  restaurant  turned 
to  look  at  him.  He  paid  his  bill  and  spoke  in  a  lower 
voice. 

"It  is  dangerous  to^  talk  like  this  in  public.  Let  us 
walk  up  the  Champs  Elysees,  where  I  am  visiting  some 
friends." 

Suddenly  a  remembrance  came  back  to  him. 

"Your  friends,  too,"  he  said. 

"My  friends?" 

"But  yes;  Madame  CheVi  and  Helene.  After  Edouard's 
death  they  could  not  bear  to  live  in  Lille." 

"Edouard,  that  poor  boy  who  came  back?  He  is 
dead?" 

"He  was  broken  by  the  prison  life,"  said  Pierre.  "He 
died  within  a  month  of  Armistice,  and  Helene  wept  her 
heart  out." 

He  confided  a  secret  to  me.  Helene  and  he  had  come 
to  love  each  other,  and  would  marry  when  they  could 
get  her  mother's  consent — or,  one  day,  if  not. 

"What's  her  objection?"  I  asked.  "Why,  it's  splendid 
to  think  that  Helene  and  you  will  be  man  and  wife.  The 
thought  of  it  makes  me  feel  good." 

He  pressed  my  arm  and  said,  "Merci,  mille  fois,  mon 
cher." 

Madame  Cheri  objected  to  his  political  opinions.  She 
regarded  them  as  poisonous  treachery. 

"And  Helene?" 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  297 

I  remembered  that  outburst,  months  back,  when 
Helene  had  desired  the  death  of  many  German  babies. 

"Helene  loves  me,"  said  Pierre  simply.  "We  do  not 
talk  politics." 

On  our  way  to  the  Avenue  Victor  Hugo  I  ventured 
to  ask  him  a  question  which  had  been  a  long  time  in  my 
mind. 

"Your  sister,  Marthe?    She  is  well?" 

Even  in  the  pearly  twilight  of  the  Champs  Elysees  I 
was  aware  of  Pierre's  sudden  change  of  colour.  I  had 
touched  a  nerve  that  still  jumped. 

"She  is  well  and  happy,"  he  answered  gravely.  "She 
is  now  a  religieuse,  a  nun,  in  the  convent  at  Lille.  They 
tell  me  she  is  a  saint.  Her  name  in  religion  is  Soeur 
Angelique." 

"I  called  on  Madame  Cheri  and  her  daughter  with 
Pierre  Nesle.  They  seemed  delighted  to  see  me,  and 
Helene  greeted  me  like  an  old  and  trusted  friend,  giving 
me  the  privilege  of  kissing  her  cheek.  She  had  grown 
taller,  and  beautiful,  and  there  was  a  softness  in  her 
eyes  when  she  looked  at  Pierre  which  made  me  sure  of 
his  splendid  luck. 

Madame  Che"ri  had  aged,  and  some  of  her  fire  had 
burnt  out.  I  guessed  that  it  was  due  to  Edouard's  death. 
She  spoke  of  that,  and  wept  a  little,  and  deplored  the 
mildness  of  the  Peace  Treaty  which  had  not  punished 
the  evil  race  who  had  killed  her  husband  and  her  boy 
and  the  flower  of  France. 

"There  are  many  German  dead,"  said  Pierre.  "They 
have  been  punished." 

"Not  enough!"  cried  Madame  Cheri.  "They  should 
all  be  dead." 

Helene  kissed  her  hand  and  snuggled  down  to  her  as 
once  I  had  seen  in  Lille. 


898  WOUNDED  SOULS 

"Petite  maman,"  she  said,  "let  us  talk  of  happy  things 
to-night  Pierre  has  brought  us  a  good  friend." 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Pierre  and  Helene  had 
gone  into  another  room  to  find  some  biscuits  for  our 
wine,  Madame  Cheri  spoke  to  me  about  their  betrothal. 

"Pierre  is  full  of  strange  and  terrible  ideas,"  she  said. 
"They  are  shared  by  other  young  men  who  fought  brave- 
ly for  France.  To  me  they  seem  wicked,  and  the  talk  of 
cowards,  except  that  their  medals  tell  of  courage.  But 
the  light  in  Helene's  eyes  weakens  me.  I'm  too  much 
of  a  Frenchwoman  to  be  stern  with  love." 

By  those  words  of  hers  I  was  able  to  give  Pierre  a 
message  of  good-cheer  when  he  walked  back  with  me 
that  night,  and  he  went  away  with  gladness. 

With  gladness  also  did  Elsa  Brand  set  out  next  day 
for  England  where,  as  a  girl,  she  had  known  happy  days, 
and  where  now  her  dream  lived  with  the  man  who  stood 
beside  her.  Together  we  watched  for  the  white  cliffs, 
and  when  suddenly  the  sun  glinted  on  them  she  gave 
a  little  cry,  and  putting  her  hand  through  Brand's  arm, 
said,  "Our  home!" 


VII 

T  SAW  rery  little  of  Brand  in  London  after  Elsa's 
•*•  arrival  in  his  parents'  house  at  Chelsea.  I  was  busy, 
as  usual,  watching  the  way  of  the  world,  and  putting  my 
nose  down  to  bits  of  blank  paper  which  I  proceeded  to 
spoil  with  futile  words.  Brand  was  doing  the  same 
thing  in  his  study  on  the  top  floor  of  the  house  in  Cheyne 
Walk,  while  Elsa,  in  true  German  style,  was  working 
embroidery,  or  reading  English  literature  to  improve  her 
mind  and  her  knowledge  of  the  language. 

Brand  was  endeavouring  strenuously  to  earn  money 
enough  to  make  him  free  of  his  father's  house.  He 
failed,  on  the  whole,  rather  miserably.  He  began  a 
novel  on  the  war,  became  excited  with  it  for  the  first  six 
chapters,  then  stuck  hopelessly,  and  abandoned  it. 

"I  find  it  impossible,"  he  wrote  to  me,  "to  get  the  real 
thing  into  my  narrative.  It  is  all  wooden,  unnatural,  and 
wrong.  I  can't  get  the  right  perspective  on  paper,  al- 
though I  think  I  see  it  clear  enough  when  I'm  not  writing. 
The  thing  is  too  enormous,  the  psychology  too  compli- 
cated, for  my  power  of  expression.  A  thousand  char- 
acters, four  years  of  experience,  come  crowding  into 
my  mind,  and  I  can't  eliminate  the  unessential  and  stick 
the  point  of  my  pen  into  the  heart  of  truth.  Besides, 
the  present  state  of  the  world,  to  say  nothing  of  domestic 
trouble,  prevents  anything  like  concentration.  .  .  .  And 
my  nerves  have  gone  to  hell." 

After  the  abandonment  of  his  novel  he  took  to  writing 
articles  for  magazines  and  newspapers,  some  of  which 

299 


300  WOUNDED  SOULS 

appeared,  thereby  producing  some  useful  guineas.  I  read 
them  and  liked  their  strength  of  style  and  intensity  of 
emotion.  But  they  were  profoundly  pessimistic  and  "the 
gloomy  Dean,"  who  was  prophesying  woe,  had  an  able 
seconder  in  Wickham  Brand,  who  foresaw  the  ruin  of 
civilisation  and  the  downfall  of  the  British  Empire  be- 
cause of  the  stupidity  of  the  world's  leaders  and  the 
careless  ignorance  of  the  multitudes.  He  harped  too 
much  on  the  same  string,  and  I  fancied  that  editors  would 
soon  begin  to  tire  of  his  melancholy  tune.  I  was  right. 

"I  have  had  six  articles  rejected  in  three  weeks,"  wrote 
Brand.  "People  don't  want  the  truth.  They  want  cheery 
insincerity.  Well,  they  won't  get  it  from  me,  though  I 
starve  to  death.  .  .  .  But  it's  hard  on  Elsa.  She's  having 
a  horrible  time,  and  her  nerve  is  breaking.  I  wish  to 
God  I  could  afford  to  take  her  down  to  the  country  some- 
where, away  from  spiteful  females  and  their  cunning 
cruelty.  Have  you  seen  any  Christian  charity  about  in 
this  most  Christian  country?  If  so,  send  me  word,  and 
I'll  walk  to  it,  on  my  knees,  from  Chelsea." 

It  was  in  a  postscript  to  a  letter  about  a  short  story 
he  was  writing  that  he  wrote  an  alarming  sentence. 

"I  think  Elsa  is  dying.     She  gets  weaker  every  day." 

Those  words  sent  me  to  Chelsea  in  a  hurry.  I  had 
been  too  careless  of  Brand's  troubles,  owing  to  my  own 
pressure  of  work,  and  my  own  fight  with  a  nervous  de- 
pression which  was  a  general  malady,  I  found,  with  most 
men  back  from  the  war. 

When  I  rapped  the  brass  knocker  on  the  house  in 
Cheyne  Walk  the  door  was  opened  by  a  different  maid 
from  the  one  I  had  seen  on  my  first  visit  there.  The 
other  one,  as  Brand  told  me  afterwards,  had  given  notice 
because  "she  couldn't  abide  them  Huns"  (meaning  Elsa), 
and  before  her  had  gone  the  cook,  who  had  been  with 
Wickham's  mother  for  twenty  years. 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  301 

Brand  was  writing  in  his  study  upstairs  when 'the  new 
maid  showed  me  in.  Or,  rather,  he  was  leaning  over  a 
writing-block,  with  his  elbows  dug  into  the  table,  and  his 
face  in  his  hands,  while  an  unlighted  pipe — his  old  trench 
pipe — lay  across  the  inkpot. 

"Thinking  out  a  new  plot,  old  man  ?"  I  asked  cheerily. 

"It  doesn't  come,"  he  said.  "My  own  plot  cuts  across 
my  line  of  thought." 

"How's  Elsa?" 

He  pointed  with  the  stem  of  his  pipe  to  the  door  lead- 
ing from  his  room. 

"Sleeping,  I  hope.  ...  Sit  down,  and  let's  have  a 
yarn." 

We  talked  about  things  in  general  for  a  time.  They 
were  not  very  cheerful,  anyhow.  Brand  and  I  were  both 
gloomy  souls  just  then,  and  knew  each  other  too  well 
to  camouflage  our  views  about  the  state  of  Europe  and 
the  "unrest"  (as  it  was  called)  in  England. 

Then  he  told  me  about  Elsa,  and  it  was  a  tragic  tale. 
From  the  very  first  his  people  had  treated  her  with  a 
studied  unkindness  which  had  broken  her  nerve  and 
spirit.  She  had  come  to  England  with  a  joyous  hope  of 
finding  happiness  and  friendship  with  her  husband's 
family,  and  glad  to  escape  from  the  sadness  of  Germany 
and  the  solemn  disapproval  of  her  own  people,  apart 
from  Franz,  who  was  devoted  to  her. 

Her  first  dismay  came  when  she  kissed  the  hand  of  her 
mother-in-law,  who  drew  it  away  as  though  she  had 
been  stung  by  a  wasp,  and  when  her  movement  to  kiss 
her  husband's  sister  Ethel  was  repulsed  by  a  girl  who 
drew  back  icily  and  said,  "How  do  you  do?" 

Even  then  she  comforted  herself  a  little  with  the 
thought  that  this  coldness  was  due  to  English  reserve, 
and  that  in  a  little  while  English  kindness  would  be 
revealed.  But  the  days  passed  with  only  unkindness. 


802  WOUNDED  SOULS 

At  first  Lady  Brand  and  her  daughter  maintained  a 
chilly  silence  towards  Elsa,  at  breakfast,  luncheon,  and 
other  meals,  talking  to  each  other  brightly,  as  though  she 
did  not  exist,  and  referring  constantly  to  Wickham  as 
"poor  Wicky."  Ethel  had  a  habit  of  reading  out  morsels 
from  the  penny  illustrated  papers,  and  often  they  re- 
ferred to  "another  trick  of  the  Huns"  or  "fresh  revela- 
tions of  Hun  treachery."  At  these  times  Sir  Amyas 
Brand  said  "Ah!"  in  a  portentous  voice,  but,  privately, 
with  some  consciousness  of  decency,  begged  Ethel  to  de- 
sist from  "controversial  topics."  She  "desisted"  in  the 
presence  of  her  brother,  whose  violence  of  speech  scared 
her  into  silence. 

A  later  phase  of  Ethel's  hostility  to  Elsa  was  in  the 
style  of  amiable  enquiry.  In  a  simple,  child-like  way, 
as  though  eager  for  knowledge,  she  would  ask  Elsa  such 
questions  as  "Why  the  Germans  boiled  down  their 
dead?"  "Why  they  crucified  Canadian  prisoners?"  "Was 
it  true  that  German  school-children  sang  the  Hymn  of 
Hate  before  morning  lessons?"  "Was  it  by  order  of  the 
Kaiser  that  English  prisoners  were  starved  to  death?" 

Elsa  answered  all  these  questions  by  passionate  denials. 
It  was  a  terrible  falsehood,  she  said,  that  the  Germans 
had  boiled  down  bodies  for  fats.  On  the  contrary,  they 
paid  the  greatest  reverence  to  their  dead,  as  her  brother 
had  seen  in  many  cemeteries  on  the  Western  front.  The 
story  of  the  "crucified  Canadians"  had  been  disproved  by 
the  English  Intelligence  officers  after  a  special  enquiry, 
as  Wickham  had  told  her.  She  had  never  heard  the 
Hymn  of  Hate.  Some  of  the  English  prisoners  had  been 
harshly  treated — there  were  brutal  commandants — but 
not  deliberately  starved.  Not  starved  more  than  Ger- 
man soldiers,  who  had  very  little  food  during  the  last 
years  of  the  war. 

"But  surely,"  said  Lady  Brand,  "you  must  admit,  my 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  303 

dear,  that  Germany  conducted  this  war  with  the  greatest 
possible  barbarity?  Otherwise  why  should  the  world 
call  them  Huns?" 

Elsa  said  it  was  only  the  English  who  called  the  Ger- 
mans Huns,  and  that  was  for  a  propaganda  of  hatred 
which  was  very  wicked. 

"Do  /  look  like  a  Hun?"  she  asked,  and  then  burst  into 
tears. 

Lady  Brand  was  disconcerted  by  that  sign  of  weakness. 

"You  mustn't  think  us  unkind,  Elsa,  but  of  course  we 
have  to  uphold  the  truth." 

Ethel  was  utterly  unmoved  by  Elsa's  tears,  and,  in- 
deed, found  a  holy  satisfaction  in  them. 

"When  the  German  people  confess  their  guilt  with 
weeping  and  lamentation,  the  English  will  be  first  to  for- 
give. Never  till  then." 

The  presence  of  a  German  girl  in  the  house  seemed 
to  act  as  a  blight  upon  all  domestic  happiness.  It  was 
the  cook  who  first  "gave  notice."  Elsa  had  never  so 
much  as  set  eyes  upon  that  cross-eyed  woman  below- 
stairs  who  had  prepared  the  family  food  since  Wickham 
had  sat  in  a  high  chair,  with  a  bib  round  his  neck.  But 
Mary,  in  a  private  interview  with  Lady  Brand,  stormy 
in  its  character,  as  Elsa  could  hear  through  the  folding- 
doors,  vowed  that  she  would  not  live  in  the  same  house 
with  "one  of  those  damned  Germings." 

Lady  Brand's  tearful  protestations  that  Elsa  was  no 
longer  German,  being  "Mr.  Wickham's  wife,"  and  that 
she  had  repented  sincerely  of  all  the  wrong  done  by  the 
country  in  which  she  had  unfortunately  been  born,  did 
not  weaken  the  resolution  of  Mary  Grubb,  whose  patrio- 
tism had  always  been  "above  suspicion,"  "which,"  as 
she  said,  "I  hope  to  remain  so."  She  went  next  morning, 
after  a  great  noise  of  breathing  and  the  descent  of  tin 
boxes,  while  Lady  Brand  and  Ethel  looked  with  re- 


304  WOUNDED  SOULS 

proachful  eyes  at  Elsa  as  the  cause  of  this  irreparable 
blow. 

The  parlour-maid  followed  in  a  week's  time,  on  the 
advice  of  her  young  man,  who  had  worked  in  a  canteen 
of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  at  Boulogne  and  knew  all  about  Ger- 
man spies. 

It  was  very  awkward  for  Lady  Brand,  who  assumed 
an  expression  of  Christian  martyrdom,  and  told  Wick- 
ham  that  his  rash  act  was  bearing  sad  fruit,  a  mixed 
metaphor  which  increased  his  anger,  as  he  told  me,  to  a 
ridiculous  degree. 

He  could  see  that  Elsa  was  very  miserable.  Many 
times  she  wept  when  alone  with  him,  and  begged  him  to 
take  her  away  to  a  little  home  of  their  own,  even  if  it 
were  only  one  room  in  the  poorest  neighbourhood.  But 
Wickham  was  almost  penniless,  and  begged  her  to  be 
patient  a  little  longer,  until  he  had  saved  enough  to 
fulfil  their  hope.  There  I  think  he  was  unwise.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  him  to  borrow  money — he  had  good 
friends — rather  than  keep  his  wife  in  such  a  hostile  at- 
mosphere. She  was  weak  and  ill.  He  was  alarmed  at 
her  increasing  weakness.  Once  she  fainted  in  his  arms, 
and  even  to  go  upstairs  to  their  rooms  at  the  top  of  the 
house  tired  her  so  much  that  afterwards  she  would  lie 
back  in  a  chair,  with  her  eyes  closed,  looking  very  white 
and  worn.  She  tried  to  hide  her  ill-health  from  her  hus- 
band, and  when  they  were  alone  together  she  seemed 
gay  and  happy,  and  would  have  deceived  him  but  for 
those  fits  of  weeping  at  the  unkindness  of  his  mother  and 
sister,  and  those  sudden  attacks  of  "tiredness"  when  all 
physical  strength  departed  from  her. 

Her  love  for  him  seemed  to  grow  with  the  weakness 
of  her  body.  She  could  not  bear  him  to  leave  her  alone 
for  any  length  of  time,  and  while  he  was  writing,  sat 
near  him,  so  that  she  might  have  her  head  against  his 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  305 

shoulder,  or  touch  his  hand,  or  kiss  it.  It  was  not  con- 
ducive to  easy  writing,  or  the  invention  of  plots. 

Something  like  a  crisis  happened,  after  a  painful  scene 
in  the  drawing-room  downstairs,  on  a  day  when  Brand 
had  gone  out  to  walk  off  a  sense  of  deadly  depression 
which  prevented  all  literary  effort. 

Several  ladies  had  come  to  tea  with  Lady  Brand  and 
Ethel,  and  they  gazed  at  Elsa  as  though  she  were  a 
strange  and  dangerous  animal. 

One  of  them,  a  thin  and  elderly  schoolmistress,  cross- 
questioned  Elsa  as  to  her  nationality. 

"I  suppose  you  are  Swedish,  my  dear?"  she  said, 
sweetly. 

"No,"  said  Elsa. 

"Danish,  then,  no  doubt?"  continued  Miss  Clutter. 

"I  am  German,"  said  Elsa. 

That  announcement  had  caused  consternation  among 
Lady  Brand's  guests.  Two  of  the  ladies  departed  almost 
immediately.  The  others  stayed  to  see  how  Miss  Clutter 
would  deal  with  this  amazing  situation. 

She  dealt  with  it  firmly,  and  with  the  cold  intelligence 
of  a  High  School  mistress. 

"How  very  interesting!"  she  said,  turning  to  Lady 
Brand.  "Perhaps  your  daughter7in-law  will  enlighten 
us  a  little  about  German  psychology,  which  we  have 
found  so  puzzling.  I  should  be  so  glad  if  she  could  ex- 
plain to  us  how  the  German  people  reconcile  the  sinking 
of  merchant  ships,  the  unspeakable  crime  of  the  Lusi- 
tania  with  any  belief  in  God,  or  even  with  the  principles 
of  our  common  humanity.  It  is  a  mystery  to  me  how 
the  drowning  of  babies  could  be  regarded  as  legitimate 
warfare  by  a  people  proud  of  their  civilisation." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  avoid  controversy,  dear 
Miss  Clutter,"  said  Lady  Brand,  alarmed  at  the  prospect 


806  WOUNDED  SOULS 

of  an  "unpleasant"  scene  which  would  be  described  in 
other  drawing-rooms  next  day. 

But  Miss  Clutter  had  adopted  Ethel's  method  of  en- 
quiry. She  so  much  wanted  to  know  the  German  point 
of  view.  Certainly  they  must  have  a  point  of  view. 

"Yes,  it  would  be  so  interesting  to  know !"  said  another 
lady. 

"Especially  if  we  could  believe  it,"  said  another. 

Elsa  had  been  twisting  and  re-twisting  a  little  lace 
handkerchief  in  her  lap.  She  was  very  pale,  and  tried 
to  conceal  a  painful  agitation  from  all  these  hostile  and 
enquiring  ladies. 

Then  she  spoke  to  them  in  a  low,  strained  voice. 

"You  will  never  understand,"  she  said.  "You  look 
out  from  England  with  eyes  of  hate,  and  without  pity  in 
your  hearts.  The  submarine  warfare  was  shameful. 
There  were  little  children  drowned  on  the  Lusitania,  and 
women.  I  wept  for  them,  and  prayed  the  dear  God  to 
stop  the  war.  Did  you  weep  for  our  little  children,  and 
our  women?  They  too  were  killed  by  sea  warfare,  not 
only  a  few,  as  on  the  Lusiiama,  but  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands.  Your  blockade  closed  us  in  with  an  iron 
ring.  No  ship  could  bring  us  food.  For  two  years  we 
starved  on  short  rations  and  chemical  foods.  We  were 
without  fats  and  milk.  Our  mothers  watched  their  chil- 
dren weaken,  and  wither,  and  die,  because  of  the  English 
blockade.  Their  own  milk  dried  up  within  their  breasts. 
Little  coffins  were  carried  down  our  streets  day  after 
day,  week  after  week.  Fathers  and  mothers  were  mad 
at  the  loss  of  their  little  ones.  'We  must  smash  our  way 
through  the  English  blockade!'  they  said.  The  U-boat 
warfare  gladdened  them.  It  seemed  a  chance  of  rescue 
for  the  children  of  Germany.  It  was  wicked.  But  all  the 
war  was  wickedness.  It  was  wicked  of  you  English  to 
keep  up  your  blockade  so  long  after  Armistice,  so  that 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  307 

more  children  died,  and  more  women  were  consumptive, 
and  men  fainted  at  their  work.  Do  you  reconcile  that 
with  God's  good  love?  Oh,  I  find  more  hatred  here  in 
England  than  I  knew  even  in  Germany.  It  is  cruel,  un- 
forgiving, unfair!  You  are  proud  of  your  own  virtue, 
and  hypocritical.  God  will  be  kinder  to  my  people  than 
to  you,  because  now  we  cry  out  for  His  mercy,  and  you 
are  still  arrogant,  with  the  name  of  God  on  your  lips 
but  a  devil  of  pride  in  your  hearts.  I  came  here  with  my 
dear  husband  believing  that  many  English  would  be  like 
him,  forgiving,  hating  cruelty,  eager  to  heal  the  world's 
broken  heart.  You  are  not  like  him.  You  are  cruel  and 
lovers  of  cruelty,  even  to  one  poor  German  girl  who 
came  to  you  for  shelter  with  her  English  man.  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  I  pity  you  because  of  your  narrowness. 
I  do  not  want  to  know  you." 

She  stood  up,  swaying  a  little,  with  one  hand  on  the 
mantelpiece,  as  afterwards  she  told  her  husband.  She 
did  not  believe  that  she  could  cross  the  floor  without  fall- 
ing. There  was  a  strange  dizziness  in  her  head,  and  a 
mist  before  her  eyes.  But  she  held  her  head  high  and 
walked  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  then  upstairs. 
When  Wickham  Brand  came  back,  she  was  lying  on  her 
bed,  very  ill.  He  sent  for  a  doctor,  who  was  with  her 
for  half-an-hour. 

"She  is  very  weak,"  he  said.  "No  pulse  to  speak  of. 
You  will  have  to  be  careful  of  her.  Deuced  careful." 

He  gave  no  name  to  her  illness.  "Just  weakness,"  he 
said.  "Run  down  like  a  worn-out  clock.  Nerves  all 
wrong,  and  no  vitality." 

He  sent  round  a  tonic,  which  Elsa  took  like  a  child, 
and  for  a  little  while  it  seemed  to  do  her  good.  But 
Brand  was  frightened  because  her  weakness  had  come 
back. 

I  am  glad  now  that  I  had  an  idea  which  helped  Brand 


308  WOUNDED  SOULS 

in  this  time  of  trouble  and  gave  Elsa  some  weeks  of 
happiness  and  peace.  It  occurred  to  me  that  young 
Harding  was  living  alone  in  his  big  old  country  house 
near  Weybridge,  and  would  be  glad  and  grateful,  be- 
cause of  his  loneliness,  to  give  house-room  to  Brand  and 
his  wife.  He  had  a  great  liking  for  Brand,  as  most  of 
us  had,  and  his  hatred  of  Germany  had  not  been  so  vio- 
lent since  his  days  in  Cologne.  His  good-nature,  any- 
how, and  the  fine  courtesy  which  was  the  essential  quality 
of  his  character,  would  make  him  kind  to  Elsa,  so  fll  and 
so  desperately  in  need  of  kindness.  I  was  not  disap- 
pointed. When  I  spoke  to  him  over  the  telephone,  he 
said,  "It  will  be  splendid  for  me.  This  lonely  house  is 
getting  on  my  nerves  badly.  Bring  them  down." 

I  took  them  down  in  a  car  two  days  later.  It  was  S 
fine  autumn  day,  with  a  sparkle  in  the  air  and  a  touch 
of  frost  on  the  hedgerows.  Elsa,  wrapped  up  in  heavy 
rugs,  lay  back  next  to  Brand,  and  a  little  colour  crept 
back  into  her  cheeks  and  brought  back  her  beauty.  I 
think  a  shadow  lifted  from  her  as  she  drove  away  from 
that  house  in  Chelsea  where  she  had  dwelt  with  enmity 
among  her  husband's  people. 

Harding's  house  in  Surrey  was  at  the  end  of  a  fine 
avenue  of  beeches,  glorious  in  their  autumn  foliage  of 
crinkled  gold.  A  rabbit  scuttled  across  the  drive  as  we 
came,  and  bobbed  beneath  the  red  bracken  of  the  under- 
growth. 

"Oh,"  said  Elsa,  like  a  child,  "there  is  Peterkin !  What 
a  rogue  he  looks!" 

Her  eyes  were  bright  when  she  caught  sight  of  Hard- 
ing's  house  in  the  Elizabethan  style  of  post-and-plaster 
splashed  with  scarlet  where  the  Virginia  creeper  straggled 
on  its  walls. 

"It  is  wonderfully  English,"  she  said.  "How  Franz 
would  love  this  place!" 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  309 

Harding  came  down  from  the  steps  to  greet  us,  and 
I  thought  it  noble  of  him  that  he  should  kiss  the  girl's 
hand  when  Brand  said,  "This  is  Elsa."  For  Harding 
had  been  a  Hun-hater — you  remember  his  much-repeated 
phrase,  "No  good  German  but  a  dead  German!" — and 
that  little  act  was  real  chivalry  to  a  woman  of  the  enemy. 

There  was  a  great  fire  of  logs  burning  in  the  open 
hearth  in  the  hall,  flinging  a  ruddy  glare  on  the  panelled 
walls  and  glinting  on  bits  of  armour  and  hunting  trophies. 
Upstairs  also,  Brand  told  me,  there  was  a  splendid  fire 
in  Elsa's  room,  which  had  once  been  the  room  of  Hard- 
ing's  wife.  It  warmed  Elsa  not  only  in  body  but  in  soul. 
Here  was  an  English  welcome,  and  kindness  of  thought. 
On  her  dressing-table  there  were  flowers  from  Harding's 
hot-houses,  and  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  pleasure  at  the 
sight  of  them,  for  there  had  been  no  flowers  in  Cheyne 
Walk,  Chelsea.  That  night  she  was  strong  enough  to 
come  down  to  dinner,  and  looked  very  charming  there  at 
the  polished  board,  lit  only  by  candlelight  whose  soft 
rays  touched  the  gold  of  her  hair. 

"It  is  a  true  English  home,"  she  said,  glancing  up  at 
the  panelled  walls  and  at  portraits  of  Harding's  people 
in  old-fashioned  costumes  which  hung  there. 

"A  lonely  one  when  no  friends  are  here,"  said  Hard- 
ing, and  that  was  the  only  time  he  referred  in  any  way 
to  the  wife  who  had  left  him. 

That  dinner  was  the  last  one  which  Elsa  had  sitting 
at  table  with  us.  She  became  very  tired  again.  So  tired 
that  Brand  had  to  carry  her  upstairs  and  downstairs, 
which  he  did  as  though  she  weighed  no  more  than  a 
child.  During  the  day  she  lay  on  a  sofa  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Brand  did  no  writing  now,  nor  any  kind  of 
work,  but  stayed  always  with  his  wife.  For  hours  to- 
gether he  sat  by  her  side,  and  she  held  his  hand  and 
touched  his  face  and  hair,  and  was  happy  in  her  love. 


310  WOUNDED  SOULS 

A  good  friend  came  to  stay  with  them,  and  brought 
unfailing  cheerfulness.  It  was.  Charles  Fortune,  who  had 
come  down  at  Harding's  invitation.  He  was  as  comical 
as  ever,  and  made  Elsa  laugh  with  ripples  of  merriment 
while  he  satirised  the  world  as  he  knew  it,  with  shrewd 
and  penetrating  wit.  He  played  the  jester  industriously 
to  get  that  laughter  f/om  her,  though  sometimes  she  had 
to  beg  of  him  not  to  make  her  laugh  so  much  because  it 
hurt  her.  Then  he  played  the  piano  late  into  the  after- 
noon, until  the  twilight  in  the  room  faded  into  darkness 
except  for  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  log  fire,  or  after  dinner 
in  the  evenings  until  Brand  carried  his  wife  to  bed.  He 
played  Chopin  best,  with  a  magic  touch,  but  Elsa  liked 
him  to  play  Bach  and  Schumann,  and  sometimes  Mozart, 
because  that  brought  back  her  girlhood  in  the  days  before 
the  war. 

So  it  was  one  evening  when  Brand  sat  on  a  low  stool 
by  the  sofa  on  which  Elsa  lay,  with  her  fingers  playing 
in  his  hair,  or  resting  on  his  shoulder,  while  Fortune  filled 
the  room  with  melody. 

Once  or  twice  Elsa  spoke  to  Brand  in  a  low  voice.  I 
heard  some  of  her  words  as  I  lay  on  a  bearskin  by  the 
fire. 

"I  am  wonderfully  happy,  my  dear,"  she  said  once, 
and  Brand  pulled  her  hand  down  and  kissed  it. 

A  little  later  she  spoke  again. 

"Love  is  so  much  better  than  hate.  Then  why  should 
people  go  to  war?" 

"God  knows,  my  dear,"  said  Brand. 

It  was  some  time  after  that,  when  Fortune  was  play- 
ing softly,  that  I  heard  Elsa  give  a  big,  tired  sigh,  and 
say  the  word  "Peace !" 

Charles  Fortune  played  something  of  Beethoven's  now, 
with  grand  crashing  chords  which  throbbed  through  the 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  311 

room  as  the  last  glow  of  the  sunset  flushed  through  the 
windows. 

Suddenly  Brand  stirred  on  his  stool,  made  an  abrupt 
movement,  then  rose,  and  gave  a  loud,  agonising  cry. 
Fortune  stopped  playing,  with  a  slur  of  notes.  Harding 
leapt  up  from  his  chair  in  a  dark  corner  and  said,  "Brand  I 
.  .  .  what's  the  matter?" 

Brand  had  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  was  weeping, 
with  his  arms  about  his  dead  wife. 


VIII 

WAS  again  a  wanderer  in  the  land,  and  going  from 
•*•  country  to  country  in  Europe  saw  the  disillusionment 
that  had  followed  victory,  and  the  despair  that  had 
followed  defeat,  and  the  ravages  that  were  bequeathed 
by  war  to  peace,  not  only  in  devastated  earth  and  stricken 
towns,  but  in  the  souls  of  men  and  women. 

The  victors  had  made  great  promises  to  their  people, 
but  for  the  most  part  they  were  still  unredeemed.  They 
had  promised  them  rich  fruits  of  victory  to  be  paid  out  of 
the  ruin  of  their  enemies.  But  little  fruit  of  gold  or 
treasure  could  be  gathered  from  the  utter  bankruptcy  of 
Germany  and  Austria,  whose  factories  stayed  idle  for 
lack  of  raw  material  and  whose  money  was  waste  paper 
in  value  of  exchange.  "Reconstruction"  was  the  watch- 
word of  statesmen,  uttered  as  a  kind  of  magic  spell,  but 
when  I  went  over  the  old  battlefields  in  France  I  found  no 
sign  of  reconstruction,  but  only  the  vast  belt  of  desola- 
tion which  in  war  I  had  seen  swept  by  fire.  No  spell- 
word  had  built  up  those  towns  and  villages  which  had 
been  blown  into  dust  and  ashes,  nor  had  given  life  to 
riven  trees  and  earth  choked  and  deadened  by  high- 
explosives.  Here  and  there  poor  families  had  crept  back 
to  the  place  where  their  old  homes  had  stood,  grubbing 
in  the  ruins  for  some  relic  of  their  former  habitations 
and  building  wooden  shanties  in  the  desert  as  frail  shel- 
ters against  the  wind  and  the  rain.  In  Ypres — the  City 
of  Great  Death — there  were  wooden  estaminets  for  the 
refreshment  of  tourists  who  came  from  Paris  to  see  the 
graveyard  of  youth,  and  girls  sold  picture-postcards 
where  boys  of  ours  had  gone  marching  up  the  Menin 

312 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  313 

Road  under  storms  of  shell-fire  which  took  daily  toll  of 
them.  No  French  statesman  by  optimistic  words  could 
resurrect  in  a  little  while  the  beauty  that  had  been  in 
Artois  and  Picardy  and  the  fields  of  Champagne. 

On  days  of  national  thanksgiving  the  spirit  of  France 
was  exalted  by  the  joy  of  victory.  In  Paris  it  was  a 
feverish  joy,  wild-eyed,  with  laughing  ecstasy,  with 
troops  of  dancing  girls,  and  a  carnival  that  broke  all 
bounds  between  Montmartre  and  Montparnasse.  France 
had  saved  herself  from  death.  She  had  revenged  herself 
for  1870  and  the  years  just  passed.  She  had  crushed  the 
Enemy  that  had  always  been  a  brutal  menace  across 
the  frontier.  She  had  her  sword  deep  in  the  heart  of 
Germany,  which  lay  bleeding  at  her  feet.  I  who  love 
France  with  a  kind  of  passion,  and  had  seen  during  the 
years  of  war  the  agony  and  the  heroism  of  her  people, 
did  not  begrudge  them  their  ecstasy,  and  it  touched  my 
spirit  with  its  fire  so  that  in  France  I  could  see  and  un- 
derstand the  French  point  of  view,  of  ruthlessness  to- 
wards the  beaten  foe.  But  I  saw  also  what  many  people 
of  France  saw  slowly  but  with  a  sense  of  fear,  that  the 
Treaty  made  by  Clemenceau  did  not  make  them  safe,  ex- 
cept for  a  little  while.  This  had  not  been,  after  all,  "the 
war  to  end  war."  There  was  no  guarantee  of  world- 
peace.  Their  frontiers  were  not  made  impregnable 
against  the  time  when  the  Germans  might  grow  strong 
again  and  come  back  for  vengeance.  They  could  not 
stand  alone,  but  must  make  new  alliances,  new  secret 
treaties,  new  armies,  new  armaments,  because  Hate  sur- 
vived, and  the  League  of  Nations  was  a  farce,  as  it  had 
come  from  the  table  at  Versailles. 

They  looked  round  and  counted  their  cost — a  million 
and  a  half  dead.  A  multitude  of  maimed,  and  blind, 
and  nerve-shocked  men.  A  birth-rate  that  had  sunk  to 
zero.  A  staggering  debt  which  they  could  not  pay.  A 


314)  WOUNDED  SOULS 

cost  of  living  which  mounted  higher  and  ever  higher. 
A  sense  of  revolt  among  the  soldiers  who  had  come  back, 
because  their  reward  for  four  years  of  misery  was  no 
more  than  miserable. 

So  it  was  in  Italy,  stricken  by  a  more  desperate  pov- 
erty, disappointed  by  a  lack  of  spoil,  angry  with  a  sense 
of  "betrayal,"  afraid  of  revolution,  exultant  when  a 
mad  poet  seized  the  port  of  Fiume  which  had  been  denied 
to  her  by  President  Wilson  and  his  conscience. 

Across  the  glittering  waters  of  the  Adriatic  I  went  to 
Trieste  and  found  it  a  dead  port,  with  Italian  officers  in 
possession  of  its  deserted  docks  and  abandoned  ware- 
houses, and  Austrians  dying  of  typhus  in  the  back  streets, 
and  starving  to  death  in  tenement  houses. 

And  then,  across  the  new  State  of  Jugo-Slavia  cut 
out  of  the  body  of  the  old  Austrian  Empire  now  lying 
dismembered,  I  came  to  Vienna,  which  once  I  had  known 
as  the  gayest  capital  of  Europe,  where  charming  people 
played  the  pleasant  game  of  life,  with  music,  and  love, 
and  laughter. 

In  Vienna  there  was  music  still,  but  it  played  a  danse 
macabre,  a  Dance  of  Death,  which  struck  one  with  a 
sense  of  horror.  The  orchestras  still  fiddled  in  the  res- 
taurants; at  night  the  opera  house  was  crowded.  In 
cafes  bright  with  gilt  and  glass,  in  restaurants  rich  in 
marble  walls,  crowds  of  people  listened  to  the  waltzes  of 
Strauss,  ate  smuggled  food  at  monstrous  prices,  laughed, 
flirted,  and  drank.  They  were  the  profiteers  of  war, 
spending  paper  money  with  the  knowledge  that  it  had 
no  value  outside  Vienna,  no  value  here  except  in  stacks, 
to  buy  warmth  for  their  stomachs,  a  little  warmth  for 
their  souls,  while  their  stock  of  Kronen  lasted.  They 
were  the  vultures  from  Jugo-Slavia  and  Czecho-Slovakia 
come  to  feed  on  the  corpse  of  Austria  while  it  still  had 
flesh  on  its  bones,  and  while  Austrian  Kronen  still  had 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  815 

some  kind  of  purchase  power.  .  .  .  And  outside,  two 
million  people  were  starving-  slowly  but  very  surely  to 
death. 

The  children  were  starving  quickly  to  death.  Their 
coffins  passed  me  in  the  streets.  Ten — twelve — fifteen — 
in  one-half-hour  between  San  Stefan's  Church  and  the 
Favoritenstrasse.  Small  living  skeletons  padded  after 
one  with  naked  feet,  thrusting  out  little  claw-like  hands, 
begging  for  charity.  In  the  great  hospital  of  Vienna 
children  lay  in  crowded  wards,  with  twisted  limbs  and 
bulbous  heads,  diseased  from  birth,  because  of  their 
mother's  hunger,  and  a  life  without  milk,  and  any  kind 
of  fat. 

Vienna,  the  capital  of  a  great  Empire,  had  been  sen- 
tenced to  death  by  the  Treaty  of  Peace  which  had  so 
carved  up  her  former  territory  that  she  was  cut  off  from 
all  her  natural  resources  and  from  all  means  of  industry, 
commerce  and  life. 

It  was  Dr.  Small,  dear  Daddy  Small,  who  gave  me  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  what  was  happening  in  Vienna  a 
year  after  Armistice,  and  it  was  Eileen  O'Connor  who 
still  further  enlightened  me  by  taking  me  into  the  babies' 
creches,  the  Kinderspital  and  the  working  people's  homes, 
where  disease  and  death  found  their  victims.  She  took 
me  to  these  places  until  I  sickened  and  said,  "I  can  bear 
no  more." 

Dr.  Small  had  a  small  office  in  the  Kartnerstrasse, 
where  Eileen  worked  with  him,  and  it  was  here  that  I 
found  them  both  a  day  after  my  arrival  in  Vienna. 
Eileen  was  on  her  knees,  making  a  wood  fire  and  puffing 
it  into  a  blaze  for  the  purpose  of  boiling  a  tin  kettle 
which  stood  on  a  trivet,  and  after  that,  as  I  found,  for 
making  tea.  Outside  there  was  a  raw,  horrible  day,  with 
a  white  mist  in  which  those  coffins  were  going  by,  and 
with  those  barefoot  children  with  pallid  faces  and  gaunt 


316  WOUNDED  SOULS 

cheeks  padding  by  one's  side,  so  that  I  was  glad  to  see 
the  flames  in  the  hearth  and  to  hear  the  cheerful  clink 
of  tea-cups  which  the  doctor  was  getting  out.  Better 
still  was  I  glad  to  see  these  two  good  friends,  so  sane,  so 
vital,  so  purposeful,  as  I  found  them,  in  a  world  of 
gloom  and  neurosis. 

The  doctor  told  me  of  their  work.  It  was  life-saving, 
and  increasing  in  range  of  action.  They  had  organised 
a  number  of  feeding  centres  in  Vienna,  and  stores  from 
which  mothers  could  buy  condensed  milk  and  cocoa,  and 
margarine,  at  next  to  nothing,  for  their  starving  babes. 
Austrian  ladies  were  doing  most  of  the  actual  work  apart 
from  organisation  at  headquarters,  and  doing  it  devoted- 
ly. From  America,  and  from  England,  money  was  flow- 
ing in. 

"The  tide  of  thought  is  turning,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Every  dollar  we  get,  and  every  shilling,  is  a  proof  that 
the  call  of  humanity  is  being  heard  above  the  old  war- 
cries." 

"And  every  dollar,  and  every  shilling,"  said  Eileen, 
"is  helping  to  save  the  life  of  some  poor  woman  or  some 
little  mite,  who  had  no  guilt  in  the  war,  but  suffered 
from  its  cruelty." 

"This  job,"  said  the  doctor,  "suits  my  peculiar  philos- 
ophy. I  am  not  out  so  much  to  save  these  babies', 
lives " 

Here  Eileen  threatened  to  throw  the  teapot  at  his 
head. 

"Because,"  he  added,  "some  of  them  would  be  better 
dead,  and  anyhow  you  can't  save  a  nation  by  charity. 
But  what  I  am  out  to  do  is  to  educate  the  heart  of  the 
world  above  the  baseness  of  the  passions  that  caused 
the  massacre  in  Europe.  We're  helping  to  do  it  by  saving 
the  children,  and  by  appealing  to  the  chivalry  of  men 
and  women  across  the  old  frontiers.  We're  killers  of 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  317 

cruelty,  Miss  Eileen  and  I.  We're  rather  puffed  up 
with  ourselves,  ain't  we,  my  dear?" 

He  grinned  at  Eileen  through  his  big  spectacles,  and  I 
could  see  that  between  this  little  American  and  that  Irish 
girl  there  was  an  understanding  comradeship. 

So  he  told  me  when  she  left  the  room  a  minute  to  get 
another  tea-cup,  or  wash  one  up. 

"That  girl!"  he  said.  "Say,  laddie,  you  couldn't  find 
a  better  head  in  all  Europe,  including  Hoover  himself. 
She's  a  Napoleon  Bonaparte  without  his  blood-lust.  She's 
Horatio  Nelson  and  Lord  Northcliffe  and  Nurse  Cavell 
all  rolled  into  one,  to  produce  the  organising  genius  of 
Eileen  O'Connor.  Only,  you  would  have  to  add  a  few 
saints  like  Catherine  of  Sienna  and  Joan  of  Arc  to  allow 
for  her  spirituality.  She  organises  feeding-centres  like 
you  would  write  a  column  article.  She  gets  the  con- 
fidence of  Austrian  women  so  that  they  would  kiss  her 
feet  if  she'd  allow  it.  She  has  a  head  for  figures  that 
fairly  puts  me  to  shame,  and  as  for  her  courage — well, 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I've  sworn  to  pack  her  back 
to  England  if  she  doesn't  keep  clear  of  typhus  dens  and 
other  fever-stricken  places.  We  can't  afford  to  lose  her 
by  some  dirty  bug-bite." 

Eileen  came  into  the  room  again  with  another  tea-cup 
and  saucer.  I  counted  those  on  the  table  and  saw  three 
already. 

"Who  is  the  other  cup  for?"  I  asked.  "If  you  are 
expecting  visitors  I'll  go,  because  I'm  badly  in  need  of  a 
wash." 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Eileen.  "We  haven't  time  to 
wash  in  Vienna,  and  anyhow  there's  no  soap,  for  love 
or  money.  This  is  for  Wickham,  who  is  no  visitor  but 
one  of  the  staff." 

"Wickham?"  I  said.     "Is  Brand  here?" 

"Rather!"  said  Daddy  Small.     "He  has  been  here  a 


318  WOUNDED  SOULS 

week,  and  is  doing  good  work.  Looks  after  the  supplies, 
and  puts  his  heart  into  the  job." 

As  he  spoke  the  door  opened  and  Brand  strode  into  the 
room,  with  rain  dripping  from  his  waterproof  coat  which 
he  took  off  and  flung  into  a  corner  before  he  turned  to  the 
table. 

"Lord !  a  cup  of  tea  is  what  I  want !" 

"And  what  you  shall  have,  my  dear,"  said  Eileen.  "But 
don't  you  know  a  friend  when  you  see  him?" 

"By  Jove!" 

He  held  my  hand  in  a  hard  grip  and  patted  me  on  the 
shoulder.  Our  friendship  was  beyond  the  need  of  words. 

So  there  we  three  who  had  seen  many  strange  and 
tragic  things  in  those  years  of  history  were  together 
again,  in  the  city  of  Vienna,  the  city  of  death,  where  the 
innocent  were  paying  for  the  guilty  but  where  also,  as 
Daddy  Small  said,  there  was  going  out  a  call  to  charity 
which  was  being  heard  by  the  heart  of  the  world  above 
the  old  war-cries  of  cruelty. 

I  stayed  with  them  only  a  week.  I  had  been  long  away 
from  England  and  had  other  work  to  do.  But  in  that 
time  I  saw  how  these  three  friends,  and  others  in  their 
service,  were  devoting  themselves  to  the  rescue  of  human 
life.  Partly,  I  think,  for  their  own  sake,  though  with- 
out conscious  selfishness,  and  with  a  passionate  pity  for 
those  who  suffered.  By  this  service  they  were  healing 
their  own  souls,  sorely  wounded  in  the  war.  That  was 
so,  certainly,  with  Wickham  Brand,  and  a  little,  I  think, 
with  Eileen  O'Connor. 

Brand  was  rescued  in  the  nick  of  time  by  the  doctor's 
call  to  him.  Elsa's  death  had  struck  him  a  heavy  blow 
when  his  nerves  were  already  in  rags  and  tatters.  Now 
by  active  service  in  this  work  of  humanity  and  healing 
he  was  getting  back  to  normality,  getting  serene,  and 
steady.  I  saw  the  change  in  him,  revealed  by  the  light 


BUILDERS  OF  PEACE  319 

in  his  eyes  and  by  his  quietude  of  speech,  and  the  old 
sense  of  humour,  which  for  a  while  he  had  lost. 

"I  see  now,"  he  said  one  night,  "that  it's  no  use  fight- 
ing against  the  injustice  and  brutality  of  life.  I  can't  re- 
make the  world,  or  change  the  things  that  are  written  in 
history,  or  alter  in  any  big  way  the  destiny  of  peoples. 
Stupidity,  ignorance,  barbarity,  will  continue  among  the 
multitude.  All  that  any  of  us  can  do  is  to  tackle  some 
good  job  that  lies  at  hand,  and  keep  his  own  soul  bright 
and  fearless,  if  there  is  any  chance,  and  use  his  little 
intellect  in  his  little  circle  for  kindness  instead  of  cruelty. 
I  find  that  chance  here,  and  I  am  grateful." 

The  doctor  had  larger  and  bigger  hopes,  though  his 
philosophy  of  life  was  not  much  different  from  that  of 
Brand's. 

"I  want  to  fix  up  an  intellectual  company  in  this  funny 
old  universe/'  he  said.  "I  want  to  establish  an  intel- 
lectual aristocracy  on  international  lines — the  leaders  of 
the  New  World.  By  intellectuals  I  don't  mean  high- 
brow fellows  with  letters  after  their  names  and  encyclo- 
paedias in  their  brain-pans.  I  mean  men  and  women  who 
by  moral  character,  kindness  of  heart,  freedom  from 
narrow  hatreds,  tolerance  of  different  creeds  and  races, 
and  love  of  humanity,  will  unite  in  a  free,  unfettered  way, 
without  a  label  or  a  league,  to  get  a  move  on  towards 
a  better  system  of  human  society.  No  Red  Bolshevism, 
mind  you,  no  heaven  by  way  of  hell,  but  a  striving  for 
greater  justice  between  classes  and  nations,  and  for  peace 
within  the  frontiers  of  Christendom,  and  beyond,  if  pos- 
sible. It's  getting  back  to  the  influence  of  the  individual, 
the  leadership  of  multitudes  by  the  power  of  the  higher 
mind.  I'm  doing  it  by  penny  postcards  to  all  my  friends. 
This  work  of  ours  in  Vienna  is  a  go  d  proof  of  their 
response.  Let  all  the  folk,  with  good  hearts  behind  their 
brains,  start  writing  postcards  to  each  other,  with  a  plea 


320  WOUNDED  SOULS 

for  brotherhood,  charity,  peace,  and  the  New  World 
would  come.  .  .  .  You  laugh!  Yes,  I  talk  a  little  non- 
sense. It's  not  so  easy  as  that.  But  see  the  idea?  The 
leaders  must  keep  in  touch,  and  the  herds  will  follow." 

I  turned  to  Eileen,  who  was  listening  with  a  smile 
about  her  lips  while  she  pasted  labels  on  to  packets  of 
cocoa. 

"What's  your  philosophy?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed  in  that  deep  voice  of  hers. 

"I've  none;  only  the  old  faith,  and  a  little  hope,  and 
a  heart  that's  bustin'  with  love." 

Brand  was  adding  up  figures  in  a  book  of  accounts, 
and  smiled  across  at  the  girl  whom  he  had  known  since 
boyhood,  when  she  had  pulled  his  hair. 

His  wounds  were  healing. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000132793     1 


